Strength of Character
by Conveyus Prime
Summary: [G1] What happens when the pillar of the Autobots goes missing? Can the faction pull together and find him in time? Set between Seasons 2 and 3. Rated M for scenes of torture, occasional cursing, and non-explicit statements of bonds between mechs.
1. Chapter 1 -- Trap

="Autobots, I am a business partner with an associate of yours. I heard rumors that you require automotive parts due to lack of supply, thus I would like to propose a solution in person. I am based in-"=

The recorded message clicks off of the speakers as the red-and-blue flat-nosed Peterbuilt rumbles down the road, followed by a line of five vehicles of various makes and models. Optimus Prime's initial reaction to the message was severely negative, a sediment shared by the rest of his command. After Red Alert nearly blew a fuse interrogating the 'associate' quoted in the message, it came to light from Jazz and Ironhide both that proved the validity of the interest. The associate had a business partner that had become interested in assisting the Autobots directly, thus the offer was made.

Despite everything checking out, the Prime's initial reaction has not changed.

To ensure that this is not a trap, he had Blaster contact the possible-ally-to-be and meet in one of the warehouses within the Port of Portland. Knowing the chance of Decepticon interference is within the realm of possibility, the Prime also assembled three teams for on-site guard duty. The Aerialbots are fanned out over many square miles on aerial surveillance with SkySpy in sub-orbit above them; Ironhide, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Bluestreak are to guard each wall of the warehouse, and Hound is to accompany him into the warehouse itself.

Ironhide had requested to trade places with Hound, but the Prime declined the request. Hound's abilities as a scout would be far more useful inside the warehouse where they will be blind, compared to outside where multiple optics will be watching everything.

The drive itself has proven to be uneventful and devoid of chatter, only occasional status updates being exchanged between ground and aerial forces-and with Teletraan One by way of SkySpy. Optimus knows his own unease with the situation is felt by his soldiers, but feels a sense of pride that they are channeling the emotion into battle-readiness should the worst-case scenario occur.

The ground-based convoy turns into the Port of Portland and make their way towards the specific warehouse where the meeting will take place. The Aerialbots make their final pass overhead, checking for any sign of suspicious activity, and report the all-clear before assuming passive surveillance. The five Autobot cars increase their speed and drive around their leader to take their positions around the building, idling in vehicular form until or unless something happens. Only when they indicate all-clear themselves does the Prime make his approach.

He pulls around to the loading area of the warehouse and slowly backs himself into a space close to the dock as if preparing to drop off a shipment. He unhitches the trailer some feet away from the dock and pulls away as it initiates transformation into battle-station mode. Roller slips out during this process and begins a secondary sweep of the area, acting as the Prime's proverbial optics outside of the building.

Hound flickers his headlights in greeting as the Peterbuilt rolls into range. ="No hostiles detected."= The Jeep's transmission over tightband doesn't quite hide his own apprehension. ="Should we transform?"=

="Negative, Hound, stay as you are. Ground team, initiate Plan Alpha."= The ground-based guards transform and pin their backs against a wall at a corner, each peering down the wall to a comrade's back with weapons drawn. ="Ironhide, if you could get the door?"=

Ironhide cants his gaze to the side briefly, noting Roller keeping an eye on his line-of-sight to Sunstreaker's back, and smirks a bit. Shouldering his weapon, he turns around and pulls the sliding doors open just wide enough for the two vehicles to pass through without damaging something by accident. ="A gentlemen must always git th' door fer th' ladies, ain't tha' raight?"=

There are no snickers or other audible signs of amusement, but Prime catches sight of Bluestreak, currently covering the door Ironhide opened, failing to hold back a grin as his shoulder-struts relax incrementally. Good, at least the tension has cracked and eased any overly-tensed trigger-fingers. ="I'll get you for that later, Ironhide."= Ironhide just grins and retakes his position, both leader and security chief knowing the threat is anything but serious.

Hound rolls through first to sweep for any possible surprises, the Prime lingering just inside the doorway. ="All clear, sir. No energy or biological signatures detected inside."= At Hound's report, Optimus also rolls completely inside while the entrance remains open-just in case.

They appear to have entered into part of the loading area with a large set of doors off to the side presumably leading to a separate section. Since the viewable area within is far smaller than the warehouse, the Prime is left to guess that there are rooms beyond this one. So far, it appears the building has been left abandoned so the meeting could take place without interruption, but that does nothing to calm suspicions. Unless they got here first, their possible-ally-to-be should already be here.

Both Hound and Optimus Prime transform upon reaching the center of the room, unarmed but tensely uneasy. There is a palpable heavy feeling in the air, the same kind of feeling one would get right before lightning strikes. "I don't like this." The Prime's rumble is laced with dread, a bad feeling growing in his core as he evaluates their surroundings with a piercing gaze. He activates the radio display on his right forearm. "All units, re-"

A sharp pain lances through Prime's head the exact time a faint explosion reaches his audios from the outside. Milliseconds later, more pain layers on top of itself and his fuel-system hitches as a second, smaller explosion echoes from the same location. Optimus Prime staggers from the unexpected gutshot, left hand rising to his forehead vent, and Hound shifts his attention to his leader instead of their surroundings.

The radios erupt in static, Sidesipe shouting something about Roller and the battle-station trailer over the sound of gunfire and unexplained random radio droppages. Silverbolt could also be heard issuing orders to his brothers, apparently under attack themselves from the sky. Prowl, the officer-in-charge back at Teletraan One in the Ark, barks for status reports, trying to find order in the sudden chaos.

"We're under attack!" Ironhide bellows from outside, his voice carrying into the warehouse over the impacts of energy bolts against the warehouse walls. "Abort! Abort!"

Autobot radios squeal as one and Prowl's voice goes dead mid-sentence, leaving only spotty communication at best between comrades within the Port of Portland. This above everything pulls Prime out of a processing loop trying to ascertain the status of his other two components. "Hound, get outside! Now!"

The scout moves on instinct to the order, rifle appearing in his hands as he prepares to cover the door from the inside for their exit. Optimus Prime turns to follow, further orders on the edge of his vocalizer, but he catches a glint of silver mid-turn. He comprehends immediately, instincts screaming in imminent danger, but his reflexes cannot match-and a very familiar *crak-THOOM* echoes throughout the warehouse.

The blast punches through the Prime's right side, disintegrating everything from lower chest to hip instantly. Important systems and lines are sealed instantly from the heat, but alarms and dire warning messages block his vision. Optimus Prime chokes, shock setting in before pain could, as the force of impact staggers him backwards. His right leg buckles out from under him, sending him flat onto his back with a sharply bitten-back groan.

"PRIME!" Optimus Prime turns his head to look up and behind himself at Hound's shout of alarm. Hound stands framed in the open doorway with rifle pointing back towards the unseen enemy, heedless of any danger behind him.

The Prime's spark freezes upon hearing faint whirring sound of something mechanical moving in the darkness deeper in the warehouse. "No! RUN!" Optimus' roar of warning is drowned out by waves of mini-missiles launching, flying over him on trajectory to the scout. Explosions almost drown out the screech of green Cybertronian armor tearing from the impact forces, and Hound's smoking form is thrown out of the door.

Optimus Prime pulls his rifle out of subspace into his left hand and aims towards the origin of the mini-missiles, but a second *crak-THOOM* echoes before he can fire. The second shot pierces the Prime's left shoulder-strut through the joint itself, rendering the whole arm useless, and his rifle clatters to the ground. Beyond the point of feeling pain, he fights off unconsciousness and hazily attempts to sit up, bracing his right arm behind himself to lever his upper body up to a very low angle.

"-Movement is ill-advised.-" The melotone echoes from beyond the darkness as red glass glints, reflecting the flying firepower outside. In fact, the flashes of light reveal the Decepticon Spymaster advancing out of the darkness, one arm holding his rifle towards the only exit out of the building with the other pointing a Transformer-sized silver human weapon at the Prime. "-Your presence is required.-"

Optimus recognizes the weapon for who it is, comprehension dawning through the shock. "Wh-?" He coughs, overtaxed air circulators trying to filter out smoke leaking into places it shouldn't as one of many fluids in a Transformer body try to come up his throat. Ah, there is the pain, advancing from his right side and left shoulder to meet in his core, and he hisses a breath despite himself. "Why...? For what...?"

"-Explanation is unnecessary.-" The unique sound of null-rays pierce the air, punctuating Soundwave's statement as the firepower sears past the Spymaster and strikes the Prime full in the chestplate. Though the blasts themselves do little more than haze the glass, Optimus Prime's body involuntarily jerks and spasms from the paralyzing energies. It does not knock him out, perhaps from sheer force of will, but it does render him completely helpless.

Starscream partially steps out from the shadows himself, null-rays smoking faintly. His trademark smirk is missing, instead looking quite concerned with his gaze somewhat distant and canted more towards the ceiling than what is in front of him. "My Seekers report imminent loss of air supremacy. If we don't leave now, the plan will fall apart!"

The Spymaster gives the Seeker Commander a single crisp nod. "-Acknowledged.-" He subspaces his personal rifle, hands Starscream the silver handgun, then kneels down next to the paralyzed and by-now barely-conscious Autobot leader. Soundwave carefully scoops up the Prime in both arms and moves behind Starscream, heading towards the doors leading further into the warehouse. The Seeker aims the handgun and one null-ray towards the entrance, backing up quickly while laying down suppressive fire to keep the Autobots outside at bay.

Soundwave lays the Prime back on the floor, giving the Autobot leader a decent-enough view of the entrance while the two Decepticons move to close the sliding doors, ceasing suppressive fire. A furious roar echoes from the entrance as Ironhide and Bluestreak enter, weapons raised and ready to fire. Horror dawns on their faces as their gazes meet Prime's and they charge to close the distance between them, only for Starscream and Soundwave to close the sliding doors before they could even reach Optimus' rifle.

"-Authorization code Beta-Nova-Six-Nine-One.-"

A nondescript box at the center of the enclosed room, perhaps no bigger than a standard-sized Transformer hand, opens and a transmission dish unfolds from within.

Soundwave's melotone takes a distinctly sinister drop in octave as a solid impact from the outside dents-but does not breach-the doors. "-Activate.-"

White light blinds the Prime, barely-functioning systems incapable of handling the immense power surge that accompanies the light. Everything promptly goes black.


	2. Chapter 2 -- Fallout

Three hours have passed since contact was lost with SkySpy.

Jazz's mouth, already down-turned from the sparse bit of info he's been able to discover thus far, deepens its frown even further as Skyfire reports in from sub-orbit. ="All that's left are bits and pieces, sir, nothing worth retrieving. However, my long-range scanners are picking up a shuttle-like form entering the atmosphere on an easterly trajectory over the Atlantic Ocean. Do I move to intercept?"=

="Negative, it won't do us any good. Return t' base and resume assisting medical. Jazz out."= Jazz breaks off radio contact without hearing Skyfire's acknowledgement and surveys the damage to the battle site. The cover story is already looking like a gas leak of some kind, from the looks of things.

The warehouse is gone, pieces scattered for hundreds of yards and often times embedded in surrounding structures, and what little remaining in place left completely flattened. The Protectobots had been the first-responders after contact was lost with the group and have been enacting as much clean-up as reasonably possible ever since. The ground-based Autobots present have long been evacuated for medical attention, but recovering Optimus Prime's trailer and Roller is proving to be far more difficult. At least they could tell Ironhide and Bluestreak from the wreckage.

Police sirens echo through the Port of Portland and the Porsche turns towards the origin, a winning smile already blooming in preparation for dealing with human authorities. It doesn't take him long to notice the approaching cruiser is neither carrying Portland badges nor is it even a Crown Victoria. "Could ya not scare me like that? I keep expectin' th' press, th' cops, or E.T. fanatics t' start showin' up any time now."

Prowl transforms without even slowing down and approaches Jazz at a brisk pace, debris or not. "I've arranged for the authorities to blockade the area without interference until we're done here. Do we have an estimate on that?"

"They jus' extracted Roller and th' trailer." The grim notes in his voice are completely out-of-character for the usually-jovial Porsche, but Jazz is in full business mode now. "Give us another hour an' we'll be gone."

Prowl nods slowly, tearing his gaze away from the devastation to his fellow officer. "Have you started piecing events together yet?"

Jazz shakes his head, an annoyed twist of his mouth torquing his expression. "We were set-up but good, m'man. Don't got any intel pre-mission, but th' Aerialbots report spottin' explosions an' gunfire on th' ground before one-and-two-third Seeker Trines swarmed 'em an' their radio went all buggy."

"One and two-thirds?" Oh, how priceless the utter bafflement on the Datsun's face for that logic-hitching moment is. Considering the circumstances, however, Jazz can't even appreciate that right now. "There was a Seeker missing from the aerial combat?"

"Yeah, they didn't see or hear Starscream." Jazz smirks a bit at his private joke, but Prowl is not as amused and just stares at him with his hands resting on his hips. The saboteur quickly moves on. "They report they'd nearly finished driving away the aerial combatants when the warehouse exploded. Their systems went on the fritz, like they were hit with an EMP, and they had to bug out. You know th' rest." His head cants, the implied gaze lengthening towards the northeast as if trying to bring Mt. St. Hillary into focus. "We'll know more once th' 'Bots on th' ground wake up."

"First Aid's initial report isn't promising for data anytime soon. All of them were knocked out cold from an EMP burst. Hound took severe damage from missile impacts. Bluestreak and Ironhide were not only knocked out from the EMP, but incurred damages from the warehouse burying them. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker may be our best bet." Prowl frowns, the medical report bringing his attention to another point. "Do we know what caused the EMP?"

Jazz shifts on his pedes uneasily, glancing from side to side to mentally organize the bad news to come. "Yeah, and we've got more information on who was inside, too." He walks over to near-center of the loading area and scoots aside some metal, revealing two scorch marks that seem to have eaten at the post-tension concrete that forms the warehouse's foundation-concrete and metal alike. "No need for specialty equipment t' identify this."

Prowl keeps his expression neutral, but Jazz can see the 2IC's optics pale slightly in understanding. "Fusion blasts."

"Worse. Fusion anti-matter blasts and not a lot of mech-fluid or spilled Energon. Either they missed, or the wounds were sealed on impact before they could leak." Jazz shifts further towards the center of the warehouse ruins, indicating a strangely clear spot a few dozen yards away from the two blast marks. Drips of various fluids could also be seen smeared at the location. "Prime's rifle was found here. Full power, no indications that it was ever fired."

"Which means Optimus likely never advanced past this point." Prowl moves to stand in the clear spot, optics scanning the general vicinity. "But if this is true, what caused the EMP? How did Prime and at least two or three Decepticons disappear without a trace before the building collapsed without any sign of their departure?"

Jazz emits a long unnecessary breath, gaze turning further still into the ruins where twisted metal snarls around itself. "There's somethin' ya need t' see, m'man. I think it'll answer both questions at once."

Prowl raises an optic-ridge. "Ominous." He follows Jazz as they pick their way through the debris into what was undoubtedly once a room separated from the warehouse at large. "What did you find?"

Jazz points down to the ground at the center of the implied room. "I think we've seen that little slagger before." He feels more than sees the recognition and subsequent dismay from Prowl, whose optics blanch entirely. "New tech, new pain in the skidplate."

"A disposable, portable space-bridge transmitter. That explains why Teletraan One threw that alarm indicating a moment of space-bridge activity, but not lasting long enough for a standard trans-spacial space-bridge." Prowl kneels down, carefully picking up the object in question. The circuitry is fried, still smoking in places, the panels of its box-like exterior are moments away from falling off on their own, and the dish is heavily warped.

"Bein' th' most recent advance in Decepticon portal tech, we guess that it uses an enclosed space as physical containment so it knows what to transport." Jazz's addition is surprisingly monotone. "Problem is, th' power it emits in that burst scrambles nearby electronics an' destroys whatever structure it's inside of. Worse still, th' transmitter there is destroyed on activation, makin' it impossible t' track, an' sometimes it outright obliterates itself." He can't help but grin weakly. "It's like one of those human disposable cell-phones. Y'know, th' kind tha' blows up after one use."

Prowl half-turns and gives Jazz a long look that is equal parts annoyance and exasperation. The only thing that doesn't make the saboteur apologize right there on the spot is a faint twitch of the 2IC's mouth, as if he's trying to avoid indicating a positive reaction. Whether such restraint under the circumstances is a good thing or not, Jazz isn't sure.

When the Datsun fully regains his composure and stands up, his doorwings are held high and tight-indicating not only stress, but anger. "Jazz." The Porsche instinctively tenses-he knows this vocal tone, and it could almost match the Prime's legendary rumble. "Are we certain that Optimus Prime is not here at Ground Zero, within the general vicinity, or seen elsewhere within the past three Terran-hours?"

"Positive, sir." Jazz glances around uneasily, suspecting that this is a conversation meant solely between them. Fortunately, the Protectobots are out of audio-range finishing up on the last of the clean-up. "Just evaluatin' th' evidence here shows tha' th' 'Cons ambushed Prime, grabbed him, an' teleported away without a trace. How it all happened-"

"-Does not matter at this time." Prowl's sharp but low tone stops Jazz in his tracks. Yep, definitely /that/ tone. "Very well, then." The 2IC shutters his optics for a moment, just a brief moment, but that is enough for Jazz to brace for the worst. "Call it in. Code White, full stop. Initiate the Matrix Protocol."

The bracing wasn't enough. Jazz's jaw drops as his mind goes blank, feeling like the floor just dropped out from under him. It takes him a moment for him to recover his wits, and his mouth presses into a grim flat line. "Are you sure?" He purposefully enunciates his words properly, swallowing his accent to drive home his own point. "You know what that means."

Prowl's gaze snaps towards him, optics steeled and expression hard. "We have no choice. All criteria have been met, and we're wasting time here. Call it in, finish the clean-up, and let the humans handle the rest. As soon as you gather all of the required data detailing what exactly led to this, we will hold the meeting accordingly."

"Damn..." Jazz's whispered curse accompanies a long slow shake of his head. He knows there is no other way as far as protocol goes, but this is going to scare the living daylights out of every single Autobot on Earth. With a reluctant sigh, he straightens up and salutes Prowl-right fist and arm resting across the chest parallel to the ground and a 45-degree bow at the waist. "As you command, sir."

The black-and-white Datsun curtly nods once, spins on his pede, and strides out of the minefield of post-Wheeljack-experiment proportions without pause, taking the destroyed Decepticon tech with him. Jazz himself barely refrains from kicking a ruined piece of metal himself, instead rubbing his visor with one hand while activating his radio with the other.

="All Autobots, this is Jazz."= He pauses incrementally, steeling himself for the order no Autobot officer wants to give. ="We've got a Code White, full stop. I say again: Code White, full stop. Initiate the Matrix Protocol, effective immediately. Jazz out."=


	3. Chapter 3 -- Hell's Gate

Pain.

No, that is not a strong enough word for the agony that lances through Optimus Prime's processor as consciousness returns to him. With every sensor and system completely contradictory to each other and screaming as loud as they can, he doesn't chance unshuttering his optics yet. Instead, he initiates a self-diagnostic only to note the sluggishness of the command, as if it is being routed through a proxy before initializing.

Meanwhile, he carefully notes what his limits are and what he can feel without further bogging down his systems. Orientation appears to be 'standing', though he quickly realizes it's more accurately 'hanging with tops of pedes scraping ground'. His arms are held at a 135-degree angle from his torso on an upward angle, supporting his entire weight by the wrists. A faint twist of his hands at the wrist-joints reveals that he is shackled very tightly at the joint itself, negating squirming out of the bindings in any way. A slight shift of his shoulders reveals that there is a mass of... /something/... connected into the panel and case assembly. Whatever it is moves its weight just a fraction of a second after he moves.

The diagnostic completes and scrolls the information in reddish text down the inside of the Prime's still-shuttered optic lenses. The results are very concerning, to say the least. His alternate form's control box has been removed, the pods on each side breached, both of which exposed the indostructure and internal vital systems. Wires, cables, and hoses have been spliced into that point, an external life-support system that overrides any control he might otherwise have-Energon consumption, pain control, level of functionality for specific systems, just about everything. All he has left is conscious movement, for all the good that does.

Worst of all, he hasn't been blocked from sensing any outside control. So if they throw his pain receptors into hypersensitivity, he'll feel the command being issued and implemented but can't do anything about it. Certainly can't override it except by doing his best to enact mental control over what bothers him or how deeply.

He slowly realizes that he feels so... cold. Worse than the Witwicky's complaining about the overly-efficient quality of an Autobot's air conditioning in winter, this is an almost Polars-level temperatures that is long below comfortable operating levels and threatens to freeze him from the core out.

His hands clench into fists as he pulls himself up by the wrists, just enough to get his pedes fully off of the ground. The pain arcs through his body in waves, especially from his left shoulder, but he ignores the warnings while settling back down into a proper standing position. His right leg trembles underneath him, unable to fully carry its part of the weight, but he maintains his stance for the time being despite that.

Something hisses behind and and to his left, the sound akin to hydraulics compressing. Optimus unshutters and activates his optics, refreshing the lenses rapidly in a flickering, blinking pattern. The partial darkness around him gives his optics a distinct greyish-tinged blue glow that lights up the room somewhat.

"I was growing impatient, Optimus Prime." The raspy yet rumbling tone of the Decepticon leader draws the Prime's attention in that direction, though the captive Autobot leader dares not look that way. Not even as calm, even footsteps echo in the room.

Instead, he straightens up his stance and forces his right leg to support his weight. This alleviates the tension on his arms and wrists particularly, but they are still left to hang limply. The clatter of chains above his head tells him what connects the shackles to their anchoring point, and he can barely spot what appear to be pillars at his sides out of his peripheral vision.

"Not... that impatient." Prime notes being able to see his breath from his vents every time he cycles air or speaks. "You have... complete control... over my functionality." He inhales deeply, ignoring the cold itself and welcoming the brief deadening of pain that accompanies it. "I understand the current situation."

The footsteps cease somewhere nearby. To his right? "Do you?"

A light strike to Optimus Prime's right side and the agony that results completely disintegrates any mental control the Autobot leader had constructed. "GHHhhn!" His right knee-joint buckles beneath him, pulling his arms taunt and causing his left shoulder to shriek and threaten to tear itself apart from the force. Prime locks his jaw behind his facemask as involuntary shudders wrack his form, willing his own silence until he can regain control over his own pain.

"Yes... Just what I would expect from a Prime." The triumphant sound of a pleased Megatron twists Optimus' fuel-pump, but he maintains his silence. Footsteps continue until Megatron walks into his captive's field of view, hands folded behind his back and stance straight, a smug look on his face. "But I can assure you. Your situation is far worse than you supposedly 'understand' nor could imagine."

"I... see..." Optimus Prime's voice is harsh and hitches between every cycle of venting, but locks down any other indications of pain. He won't give his arch-nemesis the satisfaction. It takes him only a few seconds to fully regain his composure and even out his voice. "What do you hope to gain?" He shifts his weight fully onto his left leg and straightens once more, though still favoring his right side. "I have been captured before... and we both know how such things end. You could have killed me, ended everything right then, yet I am here-alive. Why risk it?"

Megatron stops directly in front of the Prime, turning to fully face him. "Because I already have what I want." Red optics lock onto blue, a predatory yet triumphant stare. Clearly, he believes he's already won. "A locked safe of information, ready to be broken by any option at my disposal and all the time I require. But that is only a bonus."

The Decepticon leader's voice drops an octave, his leering boastfulness fading effortlessly to dire ominousness, as he leans forwards to nearly touch nose-to-nose with the Prime. "I will see you fall, Optimus Prime. You will fall in every way possible, even to your knees to beg for your life, just as your predecessor did before you. And only after you have betrayed your 'values', your Autobots, and yourself... shall I declare victory with your re-purposed cranium as my footstool."

Optimus Prime's dim optics flare to full strength, blue lenses turning steeled and icy all at once. "You should have terminated me in that warehouse. It would have saved you the time and effort of a fruitless pursuit."

Megatron cants his head downwards, hiding his optics under the black-and-silver armor piece below his helm. "Such defiance." He takes a step back, then sharply kicks the Prime square in the abdominal grill. The impact is strong enough to knock Optimus Prime completely off of his pedes, though the tautness of the chains binding his wrists keeps him from moving beyond that. "You overestimate yourself, Prime. I only need you functional. Your physical state is easily negotiable."

"So-" Prime coughs a few times, his systems straining to recalibrate his intake systems after the impact, "-I see." He forces himself to take a deep inhale as he retakes his stance. "I wonder, though... just who... overestimates themselves... in this matter."

A cruel smile splits Megatron's face, but his red optics smolder in barely-checked fury. "We shall find out soon enough." He tilts his head ever so faintly, an optic-ridge rising and disappearing under his helm. "But I doubt your Autobots will survive long enough to witness the outcome."

Optimus Prime chuckles lowly and humorlessly. "Do not underestimate my soldiers, Megatron." His warning is quietly dire, and very appropriate. It would not be the first time his arch-nemesis has ever made such a mistake. "They will continue to search for me, and they will continue to stop you. It will not matter if I am here or there."

"Pah! Soldiers are nothing without their leader!" Megatron turns away and heads off to the left, presumably where he had entered from. "But the truth of the matter will come to light, just like everything else."

The Prime turns his head to watch Megatron leave, not moving otherwise until the double-doors slide shut to render him alone once more. He then slowly turns his head to memorize the layout of the room by sight, but it turns out to be unnecessary. The room is large but bare metal, signs of frosting at the edges between various corners and edges, and he appears to be dead center of it. A pair of double-doors is to his left, a single door to his right, and he is framed on both sides by pillars that stretch from floor to ceiling. A glance upwards tells him that the chains are only threaded through metal rings drilled into the pillars, and are only connected together into one line halfway between that point and the ceiling.

Shuttering his optics and emitting a low sigh, Optimus Prime slides his pedes on the frosty floor to pin the outer sides of his pedes against the inner surface of the pillars. Thus braced, he leans forwards slightly to hang his upper body loosely from his arms and wrists and relax as much as possible with minimal amounts of pain. His systems spin up to a higher state of functionality without apparent reason, though that makes it quite clear that he cannot cycle himself down for recharge.

"Leaders... are nothing without their soldiers."

And with that low rumble into the dead silence of his open cell, Optimus Prime disengages his attention from his surroundings and mentally prepares himself for the hell yet to come.


	4. Chapter 4 -- Matrix Protocol

Spike Witwicky has been around the Autobots for over a decade now. He knows how events are supposed to sequence when a mission starts. A group leaves the base, sometimes there is interference somewhere in the middle, the mission is completed, and everybody comes home in the end.

Except this time, not everybody came home.

He knew about the mission to the Port of Portland, but didn't pay much attention to it since it was a routine 'supply line establishment' kind of thing. Most of the Autobots had vehicular forms that had body panels and parts no longer made almost twenty years after they hit the showroom floor. Low risk, high reward, no real reason for Decepticon interference... supposedly. Prime seemed to believe otherwise before he left, though exactly what he was thinking he didn't voice.

Spike happened to be hanging out in the lounge talking to Bumblebee and some of the other off-duty Autobots when the alarms went off and radios screeched to life. Waving off any apologies for the interruption, he took the human-designed scaffold path towards the entrance to see who would leave in response to the alarm. The Autobot response was far faster than he anticipated and they were gone in a trail of flying dust before he could get there, but a subsequent visit to Teletraan One gave him more information than he wanted to know.

SkySpy was destroyed (again), communications lost between the Ark and the mission team, but not before there were multiple indications of combat. The Protectobots, out on a goodwill mission to the nearby Washington state sister-city Vancouver, were rerouted for back-up and, if necessary, search-and-rescue. Jazz had taken Bumblebee and Mirage (who was grimacing and holding his arm oddly) with him as he departed for the scene, with Prowl reassigning Autobots to new duty stations and leaving Red Alert in charge before departing himself.

Hours pass. Skyfire returns with the guard team, all of whom are knocked out and in various states of injury, but Prime wasn't with them. More hours pass, the Autobots gathering in the control room in growing concern, and still no word... until Jazz's voice breaks the radio silence, eerily echoing through every single radio present. "All Autobots, this is Jazz." The pause seems to last for an eternity. "We've got a Code White, full stop. I say again: Code White, full stop. Initiate the Matrix Protocol, effective immediately. Jazz out."

Spike feels like someone punched him in the gut, but that doesn't compare to the Autobot's unified reaction. Optics blanch, frames stiffen, and silence reigns for all of a second-then everyone moves in eerily coordinated fashion with the exact same grim expression. Protocols are enacted that Spike had never even heard of and the Autobase is sent into cascading lock-down, everyone moving with purpose. In all the years he's been around the Autobots, he's never seen anything like this.

At least he's the only human in the Ark. Carly was back home, nursing their newborn son Daniel, and Sparkplug was out running the small automotive repair and fabricator shop. He'll have to update them on the situation as soon as he finds out exactly what is going on. 'Code White' he knows-that means 'missing Autobot Officer'-but 'Full Stop' and 'Matrix Protocol'? Ratchet's in the medical bay, Ironhide is injured, Prowl and Jazz are in Portland... which means the only officer unaccounted for is Optimus Prime himself...

His gut lurches. Prime. He still hasn't come back.

"Spike!" Wheeljack's voice cuts into his thoughts and the human flinches, eyes snapping to the Lancia approaching at a quick clip. His headfins are flashing a sickly yellowish-green, indicating exactly what Spike feels himself. Not a good sign. "Thank Primus you're still here. You're needed in the War Room immediately." He offers his hand out to Spike.

Okay, that is /really/ a bad sign. Autobots usually explain what's going on while they and the human they're speaking to are walking side-by-side. In more urgent situations, the Autobot will transform and let the human climb in themselves before transporting the human to where they're needed. Spike can count on one hand the number of times he's been carried in the hand of an Autobot in robot mode, and it's always been a dire situation.

Spike immediately climbs on and kneels on one knee in Wheeljack's palm, bracing himself against the Lancia's thumb. "Optimus is missing, isn't he?"

His question only dims the Lancia's headfins, still flickering that sickly green. "Yes." Wheeljack strides through the halls quickly, keeping his hand level for Spike's sake. No need to get sick on this ride, right? "We don't know the circumstances beyond more-than-likely Decepticon involvement, and we don't know how badly he's damaged." Spike clamps a hand over his mouth, another stomach lurch throwing bile up his esophagus, and does his best to hide it. Fortunately, Wheeljack is too distracted by the larger picture to notice.

The Ark has become eerily quiet in the time since Jazz's announcement, though Spike has long lost track exactly how long it's been since then. Security has tightened drastically, all sectors put on high alert, and there is an air of tensed readiness, like a crossbow string being pulled taunt and waiting for the trigger to be pulled.

It doesn't take long for them to reach the meeting room deep in the Ark, codenamed 'the War Room' due to mission planning and other sensitive information being discussed in the highly-secure location. Almost everyone necessary is already seated at the main hologram-capable circular table-Prowl, Jazz, the leader of each combiner team, Grimlock-except for Ratchet and Ironhide, for obvious reasons. Wheeljack silently lets Spike down on the main table's surface and departs immediately, neither an officer nor technically part of command.

Prowl inclines his head to Spike, but that is the only acknowledgement of his presence from the entire table. The others seem to be too focused on an aerial shot of the devastation in Port of Portland. Spike realizes with a jolt that the mission had taken place there-the last known location of Optimus Prime. So it's true after all.

"IRONHIDE!"

Ratchet's familiar bellow from outside the room finally draws everyone's attention away from the morbid scene as the red Security Chief, staggering with fresh unpainted wields covering his armor, enters the room. Following right on his heels is a downright furious Ratchet, spouting all manners of bluster but both unarmed and surprisingly tame with his insults. The security chief ignores him, taking his seat without meeting a single Autobot's gaze, and just stares forlornly at the picture on display.

The Chief Medical Officer quiets down as he also takes his seat, only releasing an annoyed huff as he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chestplate. It looks like he made an attempt to clean up, but there are still splatters of Energon and vital fluids here-and-there. "Right. I'll start first, then." He shutters his optics, tapping his arm with one finger at each name. "Hound has multiple injuries consistent with small missile fire, his condition stable but severe. Both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are scuffed up but relatively unharmed. Bluestreak and Ironhide suffered moderate impact and crushing damage, but both are stable." He unshutters one optic, staring straight at Ironhide. "As you can see."

Prowl nods once, processor already running at full strength. "Are there any noted after-effects from the EMP?"

"Wasn't EMP, not technically." Ratchet produces a datapad and connects it to the table via a dataport. A graph appears on the screen, three differently-colored lines arcing in loose peaks and valleys. Two of these lines are surprisingly similar. "The energy acted like it when it hit their systems, but it is far more consistent with the initializing pulse of a space-bridge activation if it is not contained properly."

Prowl cants his gaze to the rest of the Autobots (and the lone human). "It has already been determined that a portable, one-way space-bridge device was used." He taps a key in front of him and a 3-D image of the destroyed space-bridge device appears in the air, slowly spinning. A murmur crops up briefly from the other Autobots present-they evidently are familiar with it. It's breaking news for Spike. "It used a room within the warehouse building as its boundaries, transporting anything or anyone within." He clears the holoprojector and clasps his hands in front of his face, elbows resting on the table's edge. "This entire event does not place our potential human contact in a very positive light."

"About that." Jazz's verbal interruption underscores a very serious tone and complete lack of his usual accent. "The Decepticons played everyone for a fool." He taps a few keys in front of himself this time as he continues speaking. "I sent Mirage and Bumblebee out to find out everything they could. Everything was legit up until after the last transmission finalizing the meeting last night." He presses one final key and a newspaper article appears-a murder investigation. "Our possible contact was found dead in his ransacked home late this morning, after the meeting went south. Coroner states he was mauled to death sometime during the night."

Ironhide's fists clench as he scowls, anger overriding his listlessness. "Ravage... but how does tha' translate t' th' attack? It was too well-planned t' be ready overnight."

Jazz lifts one hand, moving it across the publication until it focuses on a picture of a different human. "Turns out our contact was the president of an automotive supply company, and there was another human in line to take over the company should something happen to him. Best guess I've got is he ratted out his boss' plans to the 'Cons in order to take his place." He shrugs, dismissing the digital article from view. "The human authorities are already investigating that situation."

Spike clears his throat as loudly as he can, pulling everyone's attention to him as if they just noticed he was even present. "So what now?" His question is pointed, gaze locking on each Autobot in turn. "What exactly happened is all well and good, but we're wasting time if Prime's been captured by the Decepticons. He could be anywhere in the galaxy by now!"

"Negative." Prowl's sharp but calm statement cuts through Spike's growing panic, calming his rampaging emotions almost immediately. "According to readings taken on-site, there was not sufficient energy output to indicate an off-world jump at Ground Zero. There have also been no further indications of space-bridge activity no matter how small or large."

Life seems to return to Ironhide, who relaxes slightly in his chair even as hope sparks in his optics. "Tha' means Phrame's still on Earth."

Grimlock's fist bangs against the table, causing some minor hairline cracks on the surface. "Then we find him! Tear Decepticons apart until we find where they hide him, Prime!"

There is a low rumble of general disagreement, but it is Hot Spot who voices the counterpoint. "As much as we all would like to do that, such an action could put Prime in greater risk. Considering we don't even know his status, they have our ball-bearings in a vice and they /know/ it."

"Maybe a more sneaky route is needed." Jazz leans back in his chair, a faint wisp of his accent starting to sneak back in. "Better t' leave no stone unturned without gettin' caught compared to knockin' down a castle with a primed nuke inside."

Prowl's doorwings twitch as his mouth flattens, though his shoulders seem to relax incrementally. Spike hides a smile of his own behind one hand, pretending to be thinking. Leave it to Jazz to lighten the mood just enough to make it bearable. "Indeed." Silence descends fully on the table, all optics (and eyes) focused on the 2IC, whose gaze travels from Autobot to Autobot by name. "Jazz, you are in charge over finding Prime's whereabouts. Ironhide, you're in direct command of the Ark's security. Ratchet, get everyone back to full-duty status and keep the medical bay ready to receive a critical patient at any moment. Combiner teams and Dinobots, you are on standby until further notice. I believe," the faintest hint of a smile touches the corners of his mouth, "'tearing Decepticons apart' will eventually be needed."

Grimlock releases a long, low, and quite ominous chuckle. "Me, Grimlock, hold you, Prowl, to that."

Spike stays silent, mental gears turning in thought, but a light tap on his shoulder from the nearby Silverbolt draws his attention back to the conversation at hand. Everyone's attention is on him for some reason, the reason why being obvious when Prowl repeats himself: "What will your family do, Spike?"

Spike shrugs his shoulders, looking from one 'Bot to the next. "I can't speak for Dad, but I'd like to keep Carly and Daniel out of this." He folds his arms over his chest, tilting his head to the side faintly as he thinks out-loud. "Still, there isn't much we can do. Redirect the press, go digging in our own connections, help with intel, little things like that so you guys can focus on getting Prime back." His brow furrows as he holds his arms out to the side in a loose, helpless shrug. "It's all the help we can offer, at least that I can think of."

Prowl's expression softens incrementally, his tight reign on his emotions relaxing in momentary relief. It's enough for Spike to understand the huge responsibility being placed on the Datsun's shoulders. With Prime captured by Decepticons, it's up to the 2IC to lead the Autobots until their rightful leader is returned to them. The inescapable fact that they may not even find Prime, much less rescue him alive, is something nobody wants to acknowledge-least of all Prowl himself.

Most of all, Spike slowly realizes that the best help he can offer-and already has-is the reassurance that the Autobots' longtime human friends won't abandon them in a time of need.

With a long inhale, Prowl plants his hands on the edge of the table and rises from his chair. "Very well. We will remain in red alert status so long as the Matrix Protocol is in effect, and I will maintain overall command for the duration. Any further questions?" The room echoes with a unified 'no, sir' from everyone else, including Spike himself. "Good. Dismissed."


	5. Chapter 5 -- Meeting of the Mind

How long has it been since he first awakened in this core-freezing place? Hours, days, even weeks? And that is simply with the shorter human timescale-never mind Cybertronian reckonings of time. Time does not seem to pass here as still as his surroundings are, and with his chronometer locked down he has no way to counter the illusion.

Or is it reality?

All he knows is whomever has command of his vital systems are having a lot of fun at his expense. Pain receptors going haywire, loss of feeling in a limb vital to his continued standing on his own, systems overclocking and dying at random. It is as if they are testing the limits of his body by way of the overrides, and at the same time deny him mental rest as well as physical. Completely planned and intentional, of that he is certain.

The hissing from his left of double-doors opening diverts his attention away from his sorry state and he forces himself to fully straighten. His optics unshutter, errors he cannot clear blocking his vision for a moment before he shakes his head firmly. It doesn't help, but that does seem to be an indication for his unseen captors to clear it for him. In fact, the torment ceases once and for all, indicating something else is about to take place.

It only takes two footsteps and a sense of presence for Optimus to place a name to his visitor. "Back so soon, Megatron? I thought you would have... left me hanging for a while longer." He tugs at the cuffs binding his wrists for emphasis.

A low chuckle confirms his visitor's identity, but there is still a sense that he isn't alone-though Optimus can't pinpoint who or exactly where. "I see you haven't lost your touch, Prime. Very good. It would be quite disappointing for you to be proven as weak as your predecessor so quickly." Prime rumbles deeply, optics narrowing at the vocal jab, but stays silent. "However, speaking of Primes..." He appears in Prime's vision from the left, a smug smile lingering on his face, "...You do have access to the best Autobot intelligence, after all."

"An interrogation." The Prime lets his head roll to the side, a deadpan look relaxing his optics. How obvious... almost too much so. What's the catch? "Am I to be your newest punching bag for stress relief, then?"

"In time." The cruel chortle all-but-confirms Optimus Prime's suspicions. "But for now, I have other means at my disposal." He slowly lowers his chin in a barely-perceptible nod and Soundwave steps out of the shadows at Prime's right peripheral vision. The Prime snaps his head slightly in that direction, not quite prepared for the Spymaster's appearance-though that does explain the second presence. Megatron takes a step or two back, putting himself in the background by comparison. "The humans have a rather appropriate saying: 'There is more than one way to skin a cat'."

Optimus Prime focuses entirely on Soundwave as the Tapemaster approaches, stopping directly in front of him with about one or two feet separating them at most. Gray-tinted blue optics lock onto expressionless red visor, an inner calm sweeping through him despite the circumstances. "It will not work, Megatron."

The Decepticon leader only looks mildly annoyed at the Prime's quiet warning. "We shall see, Prime." His arms cross over his chestplate, red optics narrowing. "Soundwave. Begin the interrogation."

Soundwave raises his hands, lightly pressing his fingertips against the sides of Optimus Prime's helm, about where the 'temples' would be on a human. "-Resistance is futile.-" The melotone seems more flat than usual as his red visor dims and a strange red light flickers behind his forehead vent.

Energy crackles in the Prime's audios, twinging his sensitive audio-antennae, which is the only warning he gets before he registers a mental intrusion. His optics flare white, chin lifting as if attempting to break the physical contact, but Soundwave's grip cannot be shaken off so easily. Wills clash with almost physical intensity, Prime's formidable mental defenses keeping the Tapemaster at bay, but not even the Prime himself could withstand such an onslaught for long. Not on his own, at least.

Distantly, he understands that Soundwave has devoted his entire focus into the probe... but his own mental shields are down. With that realization, a white-hot power surge bursts from his chest into his mind, negating both the attack and the input from his sensors. For a blessed instant, between the 'tick' and the 'tock' of seconds, he is surrounded in a silent white void both calm and warm.

=Stand strong and endure= The words without words flit across his psyche like butterfly wings, gone like a spring breeze. =Prove to them why you are the true Prime= The white around him intensifies, blinding him. =For the sake of those you lead and those you protect, FIGHT!=

Optimus Prime suddenly snaps his head back, ripping himself free from Soundwave's grasp. His optics burn, the lenses white-hot, and the reflected light implies that they're still colored white for a reason only currently known to himself. Soundwave, on the other hand, crumples to the ground like a human marionette with its strings cut and disappears from the Prime's vision.

Megatron reacts immediately, dragging the telepath away from Optimus Prime with more care than shown. After making a brief cursory check on Soundwave's status, he whirls on the captive Prime. "/What/ have you /DONE/?!"

The bellow nearly makes the walls tremble, yet the Prime is unshaken. The white glow in his optics die back down to blue as he locks optics with Megatron. "/I/ have done nothing."

The Decepticon leader moves far faster than Optimus is able to track. One moment, he is standing almost defensively next to the fallen Soundwave-the next, he is right up in the Prime's face. It takes Optimus a moment in pain-addled and system-freezing shock to realize that Megatron has driven his hand and lower arm into the hole of his right side, pushing through internal systems to hold the fuel pump in a firm grip.

"You forget yourself, Prime." The grip tightens around the fuel pump incrementally, slowing the pumping rate bit by bit, and the Prime chokes. His body stiffens and shudders, fighting with itself as errors and alarms scream, but Optimus does his best to stand perfectly still. "I could so easily end this right now. Should I rip your fuel pump free, or should I simply crush it where it is installed?"

Megatron's hand tightens even more, stopping the mechanism from functioning at all. Optimus Prime makes an odd sound somewhere between a cough and a choke, shuddering even worse as his head tilts back and his unfocused optics stare past the ceiling above. His form cannot tense any further, and it will not take long for unconsciousness-or worse-to take him if his fuel pump is not allowed to properly function soon. "Your life is within my hands, Optimus Prime. You would do well to remember that in the future, should you have any intentions of avoiding assisted suicide."

"-...Mega...tron...-" The unsteady melotone of the Decepticon Spymaster draws Megatron's attention over his shoulder to the origin. Soundwave has clearly regained consciousness and also his footing, but is leaning heavily against the wall with one hand covering his visor and forehead vent.

The Decepticon leader appraises the situation for a few moments more, letting the captive Autobot leader drift closer to unconsciousness himself, before he finally releases the fuel pump. Optimus Prime gasps deeply in relief as the errors and warnings clear, but initial relief is quickly overtaken by pain as the damage from the forced compression takes its toll. Once it is clear that the Prime is not going to terminate from this, he pulls his arm free from inside the Prime's frame, heedless of the damage caused to wires and cables torn apart and pulled free. Optimus bites back all but a strangled groan, his body slumping and hanging limply from his wrists as all strength leaves him.

He hovers between shutdown and forced functionality, optics unfocused and half-shuttered, as Megatron turns away. "Contact the Constructicons and return the prisoner to functionality. I care not how, so long as the plan is adhered to." Optimus recognizes Megatron giving him one last disdainful look before he and the Tapemaster disappear from his sight, leaving him alone once more.


	6. Chapter 6 -- Measure of a Prime

Neither Megatron nor Soundwave say a single word until they enter the brig's control room with tinted windows overlooking the open cell containing the Prime. The monitors show various lifesigns, all in various states of distress, but none indicating imminent loss of life. Currently, only Reflector (all three of him) are manning the stations and shift to acknowledge Megatron, who barely notes them. He simply waves his arm towards the door, ignoring how stained it is in mech-fluid and Energon from elbow-joint to fingertip, and Reflector leaves immediately-he saw what had happened to the Prime.

Once alone, Megatron takes a seat in the command chair of the room, a troubled yet concerned expression on his face as he turns his full attention to Soundwave. "Status?"

Soundwave sits in one of the console seats, elbow resting on the console itself as he holds his head in that hand. Clearly, he is still recovering. "-Recovering... Forgive my failure, Megatron...-"

"Pah!" Megatron's derisive snort accompanies a wave of his hand in flippant dismissal. "The apology is mine to you. Had I known Optimus Prime had such a power-"

Soundwave suddenly shakes his head, straightening in his chair and turning to fully face his leader. "-Negative. It was not the Prime.-" His shoulders tense and visor flickers at the memory, trying to put it into words. "-Within... he is protected.-"

Megatron frowns, overlooking the uncharacteristic cryptic interruption due to the nature of the situation at hand. "I don't understand what you're implying. It happened in an instant, and it seemed to be the Prime's doing. If not Prime, then who-or what?"

Soundwave rests his elbows on the armrests of his chair, pressing his palms together in front of his faceplate with his pointer-fingers almost touching his forehead vent and thumbs pressing against the underside of his chin. He is silent for far longer than Megatron would usually allow, but the Decepticon leader understands that it rare indeed when one can not only resist Soundwave's powers, but knock the Tapemaster unconscious in the process. He passes the moments by cleaning the worst of the fluids off of his armor.

"-One possibility.-" Soundwave's melotone is slightly higher-pitched than normal, regaining his leader's attention. His visor is bright, indicating surprise and no small measure of bafflement. "-Due to rank and title, Optimus Prime carries the ancient artifact of his station.-"

Megatron's optics blanch to a light shade of red that isn't quite pink. "A Matrix." Dread and understanding weigh his voice down considerably.

Soundwave inclines his head in a nod. "-Multiple items in Cybertronian history referred to as a 'Matrix'. Legend states the Thirteen each had one. Last confirmed sighting within the Prime rank: Sentinel Prime, predecessor to Optimus Prime.-"

"But how?" Megatron lunges up out of his chair and begins to pace like a caged beast, aggravation at this complication making him twitchy. "I ripped the Matrix of Leadership from Sentinel's twitching corpse!"

"-I remember.-" The Tapemaster lowers his hands to rest his forearms on the arms of his chair, the pinnacle of poise compared to Megatron's frenetic pacing. "-Interference from Autobot forces prevented destruction of the Matrix by your hand. Its ultimate fate is unknown.-"

Megatron pauses, optics slowly narrowing as he turns his head towards the windows overlooking the brig. He purposefully strides close enough to look beyond the tinted panes, watching the Constructicons 'repair' Optimus Prime's injuries. There is a reason his soldiers fear needing repairs that their only 'medics' can do, but the Prime is silent to his credit. "If Optimus Prime carries a Matrix, then he would be protected, would he not?"

"-Affirmative.-" Soundwave's voice drops an octave. "-Second attempt: not advised.-"

Megatron barks a short, sharp laugh. "Indeed not! I need you functional at peak efficiency for this extended mission, not constantly knocked out cold." He turns slightly to regard his Spymaster, a smile not quite friendly but certainly not cruel gracing his face. "I imagine you certainly don't want word of that event worming its way through the troops. Your carefully crafted reputation would be ruined."

Soundwave gives no indication of concern nor care. "-Any who attempt will regret their foolishness accordingly. The perception of my reputation provides minimal interference with my work, and is easily rebuilt if tarnished.-" He slowly rises, still not completely recovered from the ordeal but moving quite well all things considered, and turns to face his leader. "-What is your command, Megatron?-"

The Decepticon leader growls deeply, folding his hands behind his back as he watches the 'medical treatment' down below. Though the monitors indicate strengthening life signs, it seems the Prime's continued silence is only encouraging the Constructicons to new levels of causing pain via their repairs. "Maintain surveillance for now. I will arrange for more physical means of persuasion." He does not like the option, but it doesn't bother him. The Prime should not break nearly so easily, not if today is any indication of his mental fortitude. "Just remember: the information is a means to the end result."

"-As you will.-" Soundwave bows his head in deference.

The Decepticon leader watches for a few moments more, then turns and heads for the door. "All Primes fall." He pauses to let the doors open on their own. "It is only a matter of time."


	7. Chapter 7 -- Facade

Days pass since the incident, which has indeed been called a gas line explosion to calm the fears of the human populace. Decepticon activity on Earth has slowed considerably in recent years, and humans have gotten too used to the calm. Now, a Decepticon attack is treated as a force of nature, like a hurricane or tornado-but with a cause that they could place blame on other than their God.

The Autobots, however, aren't handling the situation well. The Matrix Protocol has wiped out all plans for downtime or non-critical missions, everything from road trips to hospital visits. Even the charity race in a few days is a likely no-go. Though most things the Autobots can deal with, the absence of their leader and constantly being on red-alert is not something even mechanical beings from another world can deal with for long. They need an outlet, something to vent that doesn't entail being surrounded by orange walls all the time, and they can't get it.

The situation is quickly approaching near-anarchy. Even the most passive of Autobots are severely on-edge, attempts to lighten the mood only serve to worsen it, and the tension in the air is so thick and palpable one could hardly breathe. Spike has been kept busy reorganizing human-Autobot relations in wake of the crisis without outright saying 'Prime is MIA, possibly a POW, and maybe even KIA', everyone else has their own lives to live, which leaves Sparkplug Witwicky to let his managers handle his automotive shop while he keeps an eye on the Autobots themselves.

He has seen this type of behavior before, albeit in humans and not twenty-to-thirty-foot-high robots. Still, no matter one's race, there is always a breaking point-when the stress and tension drives one past their limits and to the brink of insanity. It is always a possibility even in the best of times, especially how silly (bordering on insane) the group can act, but in a circumstance like this without the Prime's calming influence? Even with the officers' best efforts to keep the faction together, the possibility of the faction's implosion is quickly becoming a reality.

He is already seeing the signs.

The Autobots have already split into two groups-the 'Seekers' and the 'Sitters', both derivatively named by the other group. The 'Seekers', or those directly tasked with finding any sign of the Prime, are growing both frustrated with their fruitless efforts and resentful of the 'Sitters' making them do all the work. The 'Sitters', or those helping keep the Ark secure against all threats, feel helpless to actually help at all and blame the 'Seekers' for how long the search is taking. It is only a matter of time.

It finally happens at evening shift-change on the fourth day at the Ark's lounge, where Sparkplug was enjoying an after-dinner cup of coffee. 'Seekers' frustrated with yet another fruitless day of searching and 'Sitters' annoyed at their own continued uselessness happen to converge together at the wrong place and wrong time. Sparkplug couldn't tell what started it first-perhaps a passing shoulder brush, a comment taken the wrong way, or even something else entirely-but it turned out to be the unseen lit match in the ammo dump. Everyone gets into everyone else's face, best friends ready to rip each other apart, and the expected impending implosion seems set to become a devastating explosion instead.

Not if Sparkplug has anything to say about it. He gets up from his chair, leaving his coffee on the surface of the table, and pins his fingers against his lips as he inhales as deeply as his lungs will allow.

*FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!*

Those with sensitive audios react immediately to the piercing whistle on par with the worst radio squeal imaginable, ducking their heads and covering their audios with their hands. This seems to send a cascading silence throughout the room, everyone startled out of the fever pitch. All optics slowly turn towards Sparkplug, but he doesn't stop his piercing whistle until the room is otherwise dead silent... and his air is just about gone.

He inhales deeply again, this time to simultaneously recover and to prepare for what is to come. "LOOK AT YOURSELVES!" His roar matches the most furious raised voice of any Autobot, and his stance shifts to match. Feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his eyes blazing yet steeled in his anger. "Four days. FOUR DAYS, and you lot are already a second away from ripping each other apart! The enemy is out there-" he snaps an accusatory finger off to the side, indicating beyond the orange walls of the base, "-not currently standing right next to you!" He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to emphasize the point. "Or is this the true measure of Autobot unity without a Prime?"

That accusatory question darkens the Autobots' expression to different levels, and a few even shift as if to approach Sparkplug. However, the man doesn't flinch, staring at all of them with no fear whatsoever, almost daring them to try. The question of 'what can a human past his prime do against angry Autobots' doesn't even cross his mind.

"Indeed. I've started to wonder that myself."

The unmistakeable logical calm of Prowl's voice completely and totally shatters the animosity thick in the air, all optics blanching to gray as one. The braver Autobots to turn around first are greeted with a spark-freezing sight. All four officers-Prowl, Jazz, Ratchet, and Ironhide-are all assembled just inside the lounge's entrance with their backs to the door. All of them are standing at what can only be called 'parade rest', and none of them have an expression that could be connected to an emotion. But their optics are a different story, betraying what they truly feel-a potent mix of hurt, weariness, confusion, helplessness... and, above all else, disappointment.

The Autobot troops don't have time to feel shame, as Jazz steps forwards and scans over the assembly with a faint turn of the head. "Fall in." The flatly-issued order snaps everyone out of their silent reverie and they silently reassemble themselves into a company formation before stiffening to an attention stance. Their gazes stare straight ahead as one, past the officers and almost through the wall and doors beyond them.

Prowl steps forwards to stand beside Jazz while Ratchet and Ironhide shift to flank the door, all four officers' optics steeling accordingly. Sparkplug glances down at his watch, timing how long the silent treatment would last while Prowl analyzes the crowd and memorizes the faces involved. It is a long three minutes before he finally speaks, his tone utterly devoid of emotion and perfectly logical. "All of you. Return to your quarters and wait for further instructions. Consider all duty rosters to be null and void until further notice." He and Jazz split apart to stand next to Ironhide and Ratchet, respectively, leaving the doors clear. "Dismissed."

The group hesitates for a moment, expecting far worse than just being confined to quarters until further notice. The showing of mercy-from Prowl, no less-in the face of imminent anarchy drives the shame home and the group disperses out of the lounge with murmured apologies all around. None of the officers speak nor meet the gazes of their troops as they leave, staying in place until only they and Sparkplug are left in the room.

Even then, the quartet aren't willing to drop their collective neutral masks so easily. "Y'a'right, m'man?" Jazz asks quietly, the attempted jovality downright painful to hear.

Sparkplug relaxes his stance as he evaluates the four officers with a concerned look. If the troops had been primed to explode, the cadre are similarly set to implode. Right now, the Witwicky patriarch is not sure which is worse. "I'm fine, thanks for asking." He returns to his table, reaching for his mug of coffee. "You guys, on the other hand, look like hell. Take a break for a moment, would ya?"

The officers share a brief glance with each other, though it's Ironhide who speaks for them. "That an offer?"

Sparkplug smiles over his coffee cup at the Outlander's outright surly tone. "What, need me to pour you a glass of warm Energon too?" Self-depreciating grins break the depressive looks on the cadre's faces. "Look. I haven't budged yet, and you lot don't have any pressing duties now that everyone's been sent to their room for a time-out."

That finally does it, drawing true smiles out of the quartet as their stances relax accordingly. "Alright, alright. You've convinced us." Ratchet grumps relatively good-naturedly... well, for him at least.

Sparkplug waits until the four officers take a seat at the table closest to the human lounge area, then grabs his chair along with his coffee cup. He (with Prowl's help) moves to sit on their table instead of having any manner of distance between their spot and his. Their improved mood doesn't last as Sparkplug settles back down, drawn expressions and dull optics shared between them.

Jazz traces the edges of his Energon cube. "Tha' was too close."

Ironhide nods in agreement, optics narrowing in frustration. "We haveta find Optimus soon. Th' Autobots'll self-destruct oth'a'wise."

"Will they?" Sparkplug leans back in his chair, pushing it back to balance onto the two rear legs, and sips his coffee. "Or does my question to the Autobot troops apply to their officers as well?"

Dead silence greets this new challenge, all four Autobots staring at the human with varying degrees of jaw drops. Prowl recovers the fastest and averts his gaze first, his grip tightening on his own Energon cube enough for the energy field to crack. "Then what do you suggest, Sparkplug? You seem to have a unique view of matters."

Sparkplug takes a moment to consider this and let the officers recover from such a blunt statement. He was admittedly completely out of line for saying such a thing, but the fact that nobody reproached him for it tells him quite a lot. "I'll be frank, then." He snaps his chair forwards, settling it down on all four feet with a sharp CLACK, and leans forwards while resting his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands together around his coffee cup. "Nobody has much faith in themselves or each other. Without Optimus Prime leading, you're as lost as lost can be because he's the glue holding this whole unit together, right?"

Ratchet snorts, downing his entire Energon cube in one go. Right, heavy drinker, habits die hard. "'Course he is. Prime appointed each of us specifically to our ranks, yes, even over the Council's protests. But without him..." His voice trails off, not really wanting to follow that line of thought to its ultimate conclusion.

Sparkplug lets it go, focusing instead on the less dire implication of the CMO's statement while squarely meeting the medic's gaze. "Have you ever wondered why he must have been so insistent?"

Jazz snickers despite the seriousness of the conversation. "Certainly ain't our winnin' personalities, that's for sure." This draws a brief companionable smirk from the others. "Sparkplug, I don't think there's anyone else he could'a picked back then, and nobody better has popped up since to replace us."

Sparkplug points at Jazz in triumph. "Exactly." The saboteur blinks, not following the human's implications just yet. "You seem to think of the whole thing as negative, that Optimus had to choose you lot but wished he had other options available, but look at it another way instead. If Optimus Prime is the singular pillar of the Autobots upon which the entire faction rests, who do you think needs to be the foundation of that pillar?" He leans back in his chair and opens his arms to indicate all four of them. "The Autobot officers-Second-In-Command, Intelligence, Medical, and Security. You guys."

The Autobot cadre share a puzzled look, only Prowl seeming to understand with Jazz not far behind. The other two look absolutely lost. Sparkplug puts down his half-empty mug and stands up, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms high above his head. "Optimus Prime didn't select you guys out of lack of alternative options. He chose you for your roles because you were /and have always been/ the /only/ choice he has /ever/ wanted. You compliment each other, play to each other's strengths while covering each other's weaknesses, and he saw it from the very beginning even if you have forgotten or have never realized it to begin with."

He focuses on each Autobot in turn. "Prowl: your logic in the face of chaos, to make the right choices in wrong situations, is why you are his trusted right hand and 2IC. Jazz: your initiative, adaptability, willingness to get your hands dirty, and quickness in body and mind alike are why you are head of intelligence. Ironhide: your stubborn tenacity and iron will, along with your unshakeable loyalty and personal friendship, is why you're both chief of security and Optimus' personal bodyguard. And Ratchet: your empathy and your strength of character, able to steel yourself for the worst yet still hope despite hope for the best, is why you are the chief medical officer."

Despite Ratchet's immediate spluttering at being pegged too close for his comfort, all four of them are clearly impressed by Sparkplug's keen insight in their own way. Certainly they all knew they were given so much responsibility for a reason, but nobody had ever laid it out in such obvious terms before. The fact that even the Prime had never told them outright and most likely trusted them to eventually realize his intentions is a leap of logic that isn't hard under the circumstances.

Sparkplug notices the light returning to their optics and smiles, pausing for a moment to let the realizations fully sink in before continuing. "Together, all four of you handle the military, letting your leader focus on the major decisions while trusting you with the minor. You as a cohesive unit are the foundation upon which Optimus needs in order to function-to be the Prime, the leader everyone needs. You four are also the only ones who can pull together and be the faction's foundation if the pillar is incapable of it for any reason, just like now. All you need to figure out is /how/."

The four Autobots remain silent, their gazes thoughtful as they share a knowing look. Each of them are already starting to come up with ideas to ease the tension together without breaking the Matrix Protocol. Still, there is a loose end that keeps niggling at them. "Jus' one question, Sparkplug." Ironhide's low drawl pulls the not-quite-elderly human's attention directly to the Outlander. "Why now? There's been plenty o' time fer ya t' say somethin' b'fore."

Sparkplug retakes his seat, a mix of emotions flickering in his eyes until he settles on a look surprisingly similar to their own. "Some things are universal between soldiers." His mind wanders back to Korea, when he was a Sergeant in the Marines, a mechanic but an NCO all the same. "I've been part of units who had their officers captured, watched some self-destruct and others pull through..." He grimaces at a particularly unpleasant memory. "I'm not even a stranger to being a Prisoner Of War."

He leans down and grabs his coffee cup, redirecting his gaze into the depths of the black liquid. "See, it's Prime I'm worried about. When you find him and bring him back, he will need the Autobots to be acting as they always have-not the powder-keg it's become. And you four," he peers up at them from under his eyebrows, "will be the only support he'll feel like he can rely on."

Prowl leans forwards in his seat, bringing his gaze closer to the seated human. "Do you have any idea what he could be thinking now?"

Sparkplug doesn't answer immediately, his gaze sliding away from the four officers. Then, he abruptly knocks back his coffee cup and downs the rest of his cold coffee not unlike how Ratchet had swallowed his Energon earlier. "If it's anything like what I went through, he's clinging to hope. Not of rescue, but that he taught all of you well enough that you can continue the fight without him-even if he never makes it back. Primarily though..." He stares down at the dregs of coffee grinds at the bottom of his mug. "...He's not thinking of anything. He's just trying to survive as long as he can."

His gaze slips past his mug, staring at nothing in particular yet boring through the table and floor beneath it. A thousand-mile stare as memories replay behind his eyelids at every blink. "And praying. Yeah, can't forget that. He's praying for release, for freedom from his torment..." He lifts his head, expression haunted and voice dropping to a distant whisper, "...any way it comes..."


	8. Chapter 8 -- Plans Within Plans

Starscream is growing impatient.

This is nothing new to the other Decepticons, long used to the Air Commander's nitpicking during the execution of Megatron's plans. This could be made better, that could be done differently, they're taking too long, the list goes on and could be recited by rote. The only difference this time around is that some Decepticons actually agree with him.

It has been five Earth-days since they captured Optimus Prime, and there is no indication whatsoever that the Autobot leader is even close to cracking. Prohibited from damaging him beyond repair or consciousness, most Decepticons had lost interest by now-though none turn down the chance to torture the Prime when the duty cycled to them. Swindle has even started an unofficial betting pool on who would break him first. Predictably, most chose Megatron or even Soundwave, but the Seeker Commander intends to turn those odds in his own favor.

It is the middle of one such torture session, with the Triple-Changers undoubtedly circling like sharks around 'Prime' wounded prey, that Starscream makes his first move. The Constructicons are already waiting at the doors into the open brig room where Prime is being held, ready to swoop in and keep Prime functional once this particular session ends. A very boring task, truth be told, but at least they can look forwards to providing pain in their own way without reprimand.

Starscream casually strolls past the group with scarcely a glance given to the closed and locked double-doors, though the waiting combiner group tenses as one. The Seeker has a specific look on his face that warned of an impending Plan, and when he has /that/ exact expression with /that/ specific sneer, something is about to happen-and it's usually nothing good.

The Seeker pauses next to Scrapper, shoulders about even but facing in opposite directions. "Scrapper, do we happen to still have the radio-control clone maker?"

The innocent question gets the Constructicon commander's proverbial hackles up, but he stays perfectly still. He knows what device Starscream refers to-the one they used once to make a perfect clone of Optimus Prime that Megatron controlled remotely. "The system we used to fool the 'Bots all those years ago? Yeah, the whole thing's in storage here. Should still work, too."

Starscream's smirk widens, his wings twitching a little higher on his back. "Good. I'll have need of it soon... as well as your assistance to make sure it does, indeed, still work."

The light in Scrapper's visor narrows to a thin line horizontally across the center. "What are you plotting?" A moment passes, then he hastily adds, "Sir."

The Air Commander merely chuckles. "Something that should break this stalemate entirely, and something that we'll finally use to our advantage."

Scrapper finally flinches and snaps his gaze towards the Seeker, who is already walking away and well out of arm's reach. He doesn't have much time to think about the implications of Starscream's recent scheme before the double-doors unlock and the Triple Changers emerge from the brig looking quite annoyed. Clearly Swindle's betting pool is only going to get larger.

Starscream's next visit is at the training room, where Motormaster is putting the Stunticons through their paces. More correctly, tormenting them with impossible mission objectives and berating them for failing while taking every opportunity to kick them around as punishment. Say what you will for Motormaster's sadism, his ability to instill fear into those under his command is certainly impressive.

The Seeker kicks on his afterburners immediately upon entering the training area and flies up to the observation deck, where the Stunticon commander is playing backseat driver and color commentator all in one. "Motormaster. I hear you were plotting mayhem at a charity race tomorrow."

Motormaster grunts, eying Starscream distrustfully. Unfortunately, the Seeker is smart and is not only out of melee range, but also still hovering-which means a fast getaway if need be. His attention is not diverted from his Stunticons for very long, though, almost outright dismissing his superior officer's presence. "That's right. So?"

Starscream doesn't even flicker an optic at the insubordination, instead tossing a datapad to Motormaster-who catches it easily without looking. "Capture an Autobot while you're at it, as undamaged as possible... unless destruction is all you and yours can accomplish?"

Motormaster finally wheels around, pointing an accusatory finger at the Seeker. "'Course we can manage!" A quick glance at the datapad shows a digital copy of a flyer for the charity race in question-with the Autobots confirmed as headlining the event. The timestamp shows that it has been updated less than six hours ago. "Anyone in particular you want?"

"I'm not too terribly picky." Starscream lazily folds his hands behind his head and crosses his legs at the ankles, looking like he's lounging in midair. "But! I will throw in a nice bonus if you return with one of the four Autobot officers."

The gears in Motormaster's mind visibly turn faster and faster as a smile just as cruel splits his face. "It's to break Prime, right?" Starscream only has to nod once as an affirmative. "Gotcha. I'll see who I can grab for you."

"Good. I'll leave you to it, then." Starscream then proceeds to descend, leaving the training area as Motormaster begins roaring new objectives and orders at his Stunticons.

The Seeker then returns to the quarters he shares with his wingmates, letting a self-satisfied sneer cross his face once the doors close behind him. "Everything is now set up." Skywarp grins eagerly while Thundercracker lets his concerned apprehension tense his frame. "Now the pieces just need to play their part."

Unnoticed by the Seeker trine, what appears to be a purple fleck of metal floats away from Starscream's hull up to the atmospheric recycling vents near the ceiling. Once it moves through the grate and enters, this speck inexplicably picks up speed and weaves through the interlinked system with a purpose. Only when it reaches a grate that accesses the brig control room does the purple speck escape the system entirely.

The purple metal grows in size, mass-shifting into a large purple bat with a design unmistakeably cassette-based, and makes a beeline straight to Soundwave. The Tapemaster raises one arm without otherwise making any outward indication of noticing the newcomer, and the bat lands on the limb with ease before emitting an ultrasonic pulse as if pleased with itself.

"-Excellent work, Ratbat.-" Soundwave lightly strokes the top of Ratbat's head as he voices the praise, which seems to make the Cassetticon bat even more happy. He shifts Ratbat to perch on his ever-present shoulder-mounted rocket launcher before turning on his pede and heading for the doors.

Megatron must be warned.


	9. Chapter 9 -- Diversionary

The air throughout the Ark has become much less heavy over the past forty-eight hours, the tension still high but not as high-strung as it has been for almost a week now. Prowl and Ironhide readjusted the duty roster to destroy the "Sitter/Seeker" mentality, and rumor has it that Jazz orchestrated a clever yet harmless prank in the lounge-namely, that the Energon dispenser would administer differently-colored Energon with each activation. It actually became a game throughout that day to see who got which color, or even if there was a pattern involved in determining the color being dispensed.

Ratchet keeping track only encouraged the game well into the night, and much drinking was had.

The improvement in morale only increased after Prowl made the decision to reconfirm the Autobot participation in a charity vintage automobile race. Many Autobots have been looking forwards to the event and had feared they would miss it due to the Matrix Protocol. That said, everyone is already preparing contingencies for Decepticon interference.

It has been almost a week now. They were due.

On the morning of the seventh day, Jazz assembles the second group of his team for the charity event. In this case, the racers: Mirage, Wheeljack, and Smokescreen. The first group, which is the security detail itself, left some time ago in order to secure the area. Prowl walks outside to talk with him on the final event plan when their radios beep in unison. Both black-and-white Autobots share a glance, then Prowl answers his radio while Jazz orders for the racers to wait in place while they deal with this possible snag.

The Datsun speaks over his radio for a few moments, then snaps his gaze up to Jazz and makes a curt hand motion for the Porche to follow him as he returns into the base. They meet up with Ironhide and Ratchet en-route, all four officers sharing a similar grim expression, before they head to Teletraan One together.

Blaster is the only Autobot manning the comm, and his expression is a potent mix of hopeful and fearful. "What did you pick up that's so urgent, Blaster?" Prowl asks briskly, coming to a stop directly behind Blaster's chair. The rest of the officers assemble around Teletraan One, looking at the Tapemaster expectantly.

"I picked up Decepticon activity here, near where Prime had gone missing last week." A map appears on-screen, two pinpoints appearing within Port of Portland-a red dot clearly marking the actual abduction point, the other a blue dot placed closer to the ocean by comparison. "I was about to call it in over the broadband, but that's when I picked this up." He presses a button and a white blip appears on the screen at the same location as the blue dot, a tag above the mark indicating a name. "I ran as many checks through Teletraan as I could, double and triple-checking every result I got, but there's no mistake." He looks up at the officers. "It's him, sirs."

The Autobot cadre only exchange a look, grim expressions unchanging. "Blaster, can you add a tag pertaining to his operational status?" Blaster taps a few keys on the keyboard and a new tag appears at the corner of the screen, indicating energy strength-which matches near-full levels. "That doesn't look right to me."

"Tha's 'cause it ain't." Ironhide's snarl is almost drowned by his drawl. "Ah know fer a fact Prahme took a fusion cannon blast t' th' side last I saw 'im. If his energy signature's THAT strong, the 'Cons either repaired 'im or-"

"-It's a trap," Ratchet finishes grimly, evaluating the data provided with a practiced optic.

Jazz folds his hands behind his head. "Could also be a psyche-out of some kind, but Megatron wouldn't fix Prime /that/ good, would he?"

Prowl remains silent throughout the discussion, his battle computer almost visibly working overtime with his expression unreadably stoic. "Ironhide, prepare a team to fight the Decepticons head-on. Make sure they can hold their own and provide adequate distraction should enemy backup arrive. Jazz, go ahead and take your team to the charity race, but remain vigilant. This," he indicates the screen, "is either a distraction, or something may try to happen at your location to be the distraction. Dismissed." Both officers nod once curtly and take their leave.

The Datsun's attention focuses downwards to the Tapemaster. "I want absolute silence on this matter, Blaster. Until we know for sure, any false hope you give to others will be met with immediate retribution. Am I clear?"

Blaster gulps. Prowl is /damn/ serious if he's laying down the law like that. "Yes, sir. Not a peep."

Ratchet crosses his arms over his chestplate, hufffing impatiently. "So what do /we/ do?"

Prowl neither hesitates nor blinks. "You're with me, Ratchet." He spins on his heel in a perfect about-face, his doorwings pinned back fully and quivering from built-up tension. "We're going after the Prime, fake or not."

* * *

Jazz revvs his engine as the field waits for the lights to go green. A relatively simple race at hand here, really-twenty laps around a road-course from a standing start. The rule of the game here and now is 'incognito', with everyone including the Autobots on guard duty to remain in vehicular form unless events necessitated otherwise. So far, there have been no signs of Decepticons set to crash the party, though everyone expects otherwise sooner or later. Just because they aren't here yet doesn't mean they won't show up at all.

The yellow lights flare online, warning the field that the race is about to start. Cheers start up from the crowd as engines rev in anticipation for the official start. The sound of a field raring to go-Autobot and human alike-almost fully sweeps away the unease in Jazz's mind, and a quick sweep of the field reveals the tension in the other 'Bots similarly dissipating.

="A'right, 'Bots! Let's have some fun!"= Jazz's excited shout through the radio is drowned out as the lights go green and the entire field jumps off of the line.

* * *

Prowl and Ratchet, already on-foot with weapons drawn, creep towards the warehouse where the Prime is supposedly being held, the sounds of combat a few blocks away hiding their approach. It seems Ironhide had ordered the Dinobots and Twins on the mission, and a good thing too by the sounds of it. The Combaticons are present, albeit caught flat-footed by the sudden ferocity of the Autobot attack, and the Dinobots seem to have Bruticus well under control. The only other Decepticons present are the aptly-nicknamed 'Conehead Seekers', though the Twins seem to have no problems dealing with them appropriately.

They reach the warehouse and Ratchet exchanges his weapon for his med-kit, preparing for the best-case scenario already. Prowl enters the ruined building first, sweeping the area for any hostiles, and Ratchet follows closely behind while keeping himself low to make himself a smaller target. The warehouse itself seems abandoned, lights off and windows woefully inadequate to light much of anything, but light isn't really needed for a race of beings who can track someone by energy signature. After carefully moving through the warehouse, their caution is soon rewarded.

Prowl hesitates at a corner, peering further ahead and holding one hand out behind himself to keep Ratchet from moving past him. There, barely illuminated by broken windows above, is Optimus Prime-relatively hale and whole with some common but light damages indicative of torture and his arms apparently left bound behind his back. Their suspicions are confirmed in that one moment-the damages, repaired or not, do not match what Ironhide and Bluestreak both described early on as the Prime's last known condition.

Prowl nods once to Ratchet and cautiously approaches the Prime, still prepared to deal with a possible ambush. The CMO slips past and kneels at Optimus' left, placing his med-kit down on the ground and removing a scanner from within. The Autobot leader doesn't seem to acknowledge their presence until Ratchet initiates a scan, then he stirs slightly and barely lifts his head as his optics flicker online.

Prowl kneels on one knee next to the Prime's right shoulder, not quite lowering his weapon nor his guard just yet. "Primu."

Optimus looks between his two officers as if appraising strangers, not a single hint of recognition in his optics. "I was wondering when you'd find me." Yes, there is that familiar rumble, but the inflection and tones in his voice... are so terribly /off/. "Unbind me quickly so we can get out of here."

Prowl shakes his head faintly. "Hemak kene Al chat ofo ut omea ofo xypa ofo ut (How do I know you are who you say you are)?"

The Prime stares at him, uncomprehending. "Speak a language I actually know!" He growls in uncharacteristic frustration. "We don't have time for this. We need to leave this place now!"

Prowl's fuel-pump sinks.


	10. Chapter 10 -- Vanishing Point

Lap 10.

All of the racers, human and Autobot alike, are settling into a groove and starting to really enjoy themselves. Someone is keeping track of overtakings and the tallies for each lap are really starting to get amusing, especially since some humans participating are actually professional racers and are better drivers than the Autobots themselves! The participating Autobots are even forgetting the entire situation involving the Matrix Protocol and are truly having fun for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

About halfway through Lap 11, the golden six-wheeled Formula 1 car begins to drive far more aggressively. As it whips past Jazz, the Autobot officer notices the driver frantically trying to control his vehicle to no avail. Furthermore, he swears he can hear a faint cackle from the golden racer, and it has nothing to do with a bad engine.

Slag.

Jazz hits the gas, triggering an override on the Public Announcement system that negates the commentary and instead broadcasts a prerecorded message: "Decepticon activity on the track. I repeat, Decepticon activity on the track. Spectators, please evacuate the grandstands in an orderly fashion. Racers, please exit to Pit Road immediately." The automated message continues to repeat itself and the effect is immediate. Racers duck into pit lane as requested, abandoning their cars and leaping over the wall to safety and the grandstands are quickly abandoned. This finally allows the Autobots to increase their speed and try to catch up to the runaway six-wheeler.

Unnoticed to all, a black semi with purple tinted windows and a gunmetal-colored trailer pulls onto Pit Road and makes its way onto the track itself. The back doors swing wide open, and a few new cars roar out, pop a 180-degree turn, and disperse some distance behind the rumbling semi. The golden six-wheeled car skids around the final corner and bolts for the finish line, followed closely behind by all but Wheeljack-who had elected to risk going down a lap in order to block the track at a particularly narrow point between turns 2 and 3, hoping to force the golden car to go off the track into the rocks on either side.

Unfortunately, nobody-least of all Wheeljack-had accounted for the semi to get there before the yellow car. "Outta my way!" Motormaster's unmistakeable snarl accompanies an ominous growl in his engine, bearing down on Wheeljack's exposed left side.

"Wh-?!" The Lancia is caught completely flat-footed like a small deer in very big headlights. Tires squeal and smoke, seeking traction and finding none, costing him the instantaneous timing he otherwise needed to get clear.

The semi barrels through the Autobot, nearly tearing Wheeljack's vehicular mode neatly in half upon impact without slowing down. Jazz sees the crash happen in slow-motion and isn't really sure what is worse: the sickening sound of metal crushing and tearing as the Lancia is T-boned, or the engineer's unearthly scream as he's flung tumbling into the rocks off-track.

* * *

The scanner clatters to the ground as Ratchet almost crumples inwards, arms wrapping around his torso with his expression frozen in sudden pain and gaze distant. To compare his sudden action to a human being punched in the gut and getting the wind knocked out of him would be a severe understatement. Prowl's attention is drawn to the CMO for only an instant, his sights drooping away from Optimus Prime, but that is an instant too long.

Optimus snaps his arms out from behind his back and lunges at Ratchet, grabbing him by the throat and pinning the medic flat on his back against the ground. Still stunned and legs tangled underneath his body, Ratchet can only feebly grab at Prime's wrist with one hand but is otherwise rendered helpless.

Prowl re-corrects his aim directly to Optimus' helm, only to find his leader's Energo-axe aimed at his face, humming threateningly just in front of his nose. "I'm tired of waiting." The Prime's blue optics glitter coldly, his head canted in an implied sneer. It is a strange impression, one that drops easily into the Cybertronian Uncanny Valley. "You should have evacuated me when you had the chance."

Prowl is the epitome of calmness, impassively staring past the golden energy crackling squarely in the center of his vision. "There is none here to evacuate. You are a fraud, a copy. We are only searching for the /real/ Optimus Prime."

The Prime's optics narrow, his head canting even further, before he starts to chuckle. The sound is not the rich, deep-chested amusement Prowl is used to-no, this is a higher-pitched cackle that sends a revulsed tremor through his doorwings. The axe cants slightly and lowers to the side of Prowl's neck, just under the jawline, but the tactician's aim does not waver.

"You will never find him... /AUTOBOT/."

Glass shatters above them as blurs of red-and-black and yellow-and-black fall between Prime and Prowl. A black hand grabs the Prime's extended forearm towards Prowl and tosses him to the ground, clear of the two officers. Optimus Prime twists, shifting onto his back before a flash of yellow pounces him and slams him firmly onto the ground and a glimpse of red pins his legs. One yellow hand pins the Prime's wrists above his helm, Energo-axe searing the Prime's own hand, while the other holds a small Energo-blade just under the edge of his helm.

Being so absolutely pinned in such a manner with the equivalent of a switchblade pointed at the base of one's skull would usually be enough to stop someone in their tracks. Instead, the Prime stares at Sunstreaker dead in the optics, a cruel gleam in the blue lenses, before he jerks his head back, driving the Energo-blade into his CPU. Almost immediately, the Prime's body spasms once before going completely lax, only occasionally twitching due to abrupt loss of signal.

The yellow Lamborghini stays crouched over the Prime's body, frozen in place with a quickly-growing expression of shock, fear, and horror dawning on his face. Sideswipe rocks back on his pedes, a similar expression beginning to take hold as he, too, begins to realize what has just happened. Since they clearly did not hear the conversation nor see how things came about, they start to believe they had actually killed their own leader.

Prowl drops his weapon with a loud clatter in the otherwise-still room and kneels, grabbing both of the Twins by the shoulder. They're so rattled they don't even try to shrug him off, instead turning their fearful gaze to him. Prowl immediately pulls them close, not quite an embrace or a hug but as close as the tactician will get.

"Listen to me." His voice is firm but surprisingly gentle, gaze shifting from one Lamborghini to the other. "That was /NOT/ Prime. Do you understand?" The Twins' optics flicker, the words not quite penetrating their deep shock, and Prowl emphasizes the point. "You. Did. Not. Kill. Our. Leader."

Slowly, understanding brings blue back to the Twins' grey lenses and the horrified shock drains from their faces with a faint shudder through their frames. A groan from Ratchet snaps their attention back over to the CMO and the duo rip free from Prowl's grip, almost skittering to the medic's side.

Ratchet curls onto his side into a fetal position, arms still tightly wrapped around his midsection. His optics are blanched and his energy signature is wildly fluctuating, but there does not appear to be any injuries that would indicate his change of condition. It's only when Prowl kneels down next to him that the medic seems to pull himself out of his shock. All he manages to bite out is a single name: "...Wheel... jack..."

Prowl's spark freezes, dread growing in his core as dismay shatters his stoic demeanor. "The race."

* * *

The golden six-wheeled car cackles as it swerves through corners, the remaining Autobot racers in hot pursuit. "Hey, Autobits! CATCH!" Drag Strip ejects his driver/hostage from the driver's seat straight up into the air.

"I've got him!" Smokescreen shouts, transforming and leaping up into the air to catch the poor driver. "Keep going!"

Jazz and Mirage hit the gas, emboldened by the final remnants of human safety being secured, and soon start gaining on Drag Strip. However, a turn into a long backstretch straightaway reveals Motormaster rumbling along in front of them with a ramp down and trailer doors wide open. The other Stunticons swarm around them from behind, creating a loose box formation channeling them right to the ramp. It doesn't take a huge leap of logic to piece together the Stunticons' intentions.

The saboteur checks options and clearances, finding little in the way of either for himself-no way he can slip through, but Mirage still has time if he moves quickly. "Get outta here, Raj!" He tightbeams to the Ligier keeping pace next to him.

Mirage is silent, evidently making his own calculations and decisions before his engine revs. It almost sounds as if he is building his courage along with his horsepower. "I am sorry, sir. I cannot obey your order."

The Ligier suddenly and sharply turns into Jazz, front tire slamming into the Porche's air splitter on his front bumper. The rubber shreds to ribbons, slamming the tireless rim onto the ground and scraping across Jazz's side before catching on the exaggerated rear wheel arch. The control arms for that tire bend and shatter from the force and Jazz starts to spin out in front of Mirage-

-Only for a Stunticon to swerve in and ram the Porsche away from the formation, tearing the entire front tire assembly off of Mirage's frame in the process.

The Porsche spins out into the loose rock, one side digging into the semi-soft surface in a spray of gravel and threatening to flip him. Jazz uses the momentum to transform instead, but the loose footing and his momentum offset his balance and he tumbles backwards to slam his back against the tire wall. Left somewhat stunned from the impact, Jazz can only watch as Mirage is shunted into Motormaster's trailer and the trailer doors slam shut once he's fully inside. The ramp disengages, falling away as the convoy bursts through concrete protective walls and escape the race circuit.

What does not help one bit is the echoing words on the wind, Drag Strip crowing in his triumph: "I win!"


	11. Chapter 11 -- Chain of Command

Mirage is harshly and forcibly ejected from Motormaster's trailer as the Stunticon leader transforms. The Ligier transforms in midair, skidding on the ground at a crouch in preparation for a fight, but the other Stunticons pounce him-pinning him to the cold metal floor and locking his arms behind his back. His arms are cuffed wrist to opposite elbow, a device planted on his lower back locking his capacity to access subspace, before he is harshly hauled back onto his feet.

A quick glance around tells Mirage everything he needs to know, and his fuel pump drops accordingly. The Stunticons stand in front of him, busy exchanging tales of their recent exploits and arguments to the facts, only the smug Motormaster paying any amount of attention to their captive. The ones holding his bound arms and guarding him were two of the Elite Seeker Trine-Skywarp and Thundercracker.

His surroundings are the most worrisome, however. While the Nemesis is dark and claustrophobic, this room is relatively airy with a thin layer of frost crusting most surfaces. Every vent sent a puff of visible air out in front of their faces.

Most worrisome indeed.

Starscream storms into the room, looking quite peeved-especially when he sees Mirage. "I /believe/ I requested an officer, Motormaster." The Air Commander stands directly in front of the spy and surveys him with a disgusted leer. "I also recall needing our captive /undamaged/."

Motormaster simply shrugs, unconcerned. "Almost got Jazz, but this little fragger decided to play here instead." He gives Mirage an absolutely wicked smile. "Figured somethin' was better than nothin', especially since he offered himself up so nicely."

Starscream's red optics narrow, but his disgust bleeds away to his far-more familiar sneer. "He'll do." He spins around, his wing barely whiffing past Mirage's nose. "Let's give the 'hero' the reward he deserves."

Both Skywarp and Thundercracker yank at Mirage's arms, nearly pulling the lithe Autobot spy off his feet. As it is, he straightens and walks at a quick clip to keep up with their longer strides, holding his stance stiff but compliant. Though he appears to be staring right at the Seeker Commander's back, his optics are constantly moving, committing every shred of information to memory. In an unfamiliar place like this, every detail is important.

There isn't even a pause as they breeze through a set of double doors opening into a large room, brightly lit with a long panel of opaque glass near the ceiling on one wall. There is one other door, currently closed with no indications of what is beyond, but the room is largely barren save for two pillars stretching from floor to ceiling. It isn't until Starscream moves off to the side that what is between the pillars is revealed, and the sight makes Mirage's vents hitch in horrified shock.

Framed between the pillars is the sagging, yet still standing, form of Optimus Prime. His helm is dented and scuffed, one audio-antennae mercilessly twisted like a corkscrew and the other broken off at the base. His arms have been strung up, almost hanging him from the sides of the pillars by the bonds around his wrists. The joint of his left shoulder has been completely shot out, leaving the limb connected by stretched, twisted armor. From the amount of caked-on, semi-dry (or still slick) vital fluids making drip-trails down his arms, the limbs have been in such a position for a long time.

With his arms strung up as such, it leaves his torso exposed in more ways than one. His chest panels are ajar, one possibly about to fall off its hinges. A gaping hole in his right side exposes all internal components the armor is supposed to protect-and it seems not all components are there anymore, even though some are hanging out in the open.

The two holes in Prime's frame match reports of fusion-cannon blasts being noted at the scene, as well as being the primary injuries the Prime had sustained before capture.

Almost unwillingly, Mirage's gaze continues their horrified evaluation. Even the waist down has sustained major damage. Panels are missing here and there, exposing bunched circuits and crumpled struts within. All of his joints are leaking fluid and smoking, likely from being forced to stand for the entire time he's been here. Skid marks of metal scraping metal lie on the floor directly below him, and the surfaces of his pedes-especially the top, front, and bottom-have no paint and almost seem to have little metal left at all.

In an attempt to keep his weight off of his wrists, he has clearly braced the outer edges of his pedes against the pillars themselves, which only enhances his staggered stance and gives a glimpse to his cowed back. A mass of circuits, cables, and tubes have been visibly spliced into the Prime's upper back, the armor of which gives the illusion of having been torn open by a crude can opener.

If Optimus Prime is aware of the newly-arrived, he makes no indications of acknowledgement-or functionality, unless one knows where to look. The Prime's helm is bowed forwards and downwards, the helm's brim blocking all but the faintest of dim greyish light from his optics. Very faint, very weak wisps of vapor smoke emit from his damaged and twisted vents. His hands, now twisted and snarled into some mockery of themselves, occasionally tremor subconsciously in the pain he is clearly trying so hard to hide.

Even his colors have dulled significantly from their usual vibrant hues to a pale, smoky... almost grey-scale shade.

"Primus..." Mirage's curse leaves his vocalizer without conscious thought.

A shudder passes through Optimus' body as his gnarled hands tighten into fists, then the arms strain with a renewed trickle of fluids down the plating as his form straightens. His head rises, optics brightening incrementally, and his gaze focuses solely on Mirage himself at the exclusion of the Seeker trine surrounding the spy.

Optics are windows to the spark, and they hide nothing from the Ligier as a string of emotions lance through the Prime's lenses in an instant. Shock at Mirage's presence, then anger undoubtedly intended for the entire Decepticon faction before a wave of agony surges through him. A brief flicker of fear follows, his gaze canting briefly to the Seekers present, then a moment of almost hopeless resignation settles into place before he shutters his optics and attempts an inhale that is almost akin to a death rattle.

Mirage's expression is the epitome of neutrality, letting no Decepticon have the pleasure of seeing just how the Prime's condition is affecting him. The Seekers pull him roughly into position right in front of the Prime, fairly close to the wall but with more than enough room to walk behind him. The spy's own blue optics bore intently into Optimus' shuttered lenses, willing him the strength and support he cannot physically give.

"How nice of you to awaken, Prime." Starscreem's sneer indicates the Air Commander's start into full self-preening form. He is in command of the situation now.

Or so he thinks.

Optimus Prime's optics unshutter abruptly, the optical sensors whirring within as they recalibrate, then he slowly meets Mirage's intense gaze with the familiar calm expected of a Prime. /Status?/

"Under MY command, we have finally-"

Mirage's chin dips imperceptibly. /I'm fine./ His damaged shoulder rolls, control arms rattling in protest as the spy winces. /This is the extent of it./ His optics narrow a tic in concern. /But, you.../

"-found someone to finally break-"

Prime just shakes his head slowly, as if trying to work kinks out of his neck-strut. /I'm here. I'm alive./ His helm cants back, blanched optics narrowing in an implied bitten-back grimace. /Barely./

"-this stalemate your goody-goody 'loyalty'-driven-"

Mirage's calm, steady gaze belies the trust he has in their comrades. /They will rescue us./

"-misplaced sense of faith has created!" Scarscream raises one arm, aiming the barrel directly at Mirage. "So then."

The laser blast lances through the center workings of Mirage's left knee, piercing through the lower-leg armor of the opposite leg but hitting nothing vital. Caught off-guard, Mirage's head jerks back with a surprised cry, his damaged knee-joint buckling and slamming to the ground. Fluids leak from the blast hole in the back of his right leg, pede still planted firmly on the ground, and Mirage curls his body forwards and inwards as he recollects himself through the pain.

The Prime jerks forwards as Mirage goes down onto one knee, almost instinctively acting to check on his soldier. His arms strain and joints protest the sudden movement, a reminder to his helpless situation. He glares at Starscream, who moves directly behind Mirage, and his vocalizer hitches and clicks with a backlog of conflicting commands and statements-none of them particularly flattering.

Starscream just smiles malevolently, folding his arms over his chest while squarely meeting the Prime's glare with a smug gaze. "Let's stop playing around, Prime." He barely casts a glance at Thundercracker, who roughly pulls Mirage back upright with a yank to the arm. Mirage grimaces as his bound arms are torqued to that side rather painfully, twisting his torso accordingly, but only clenches his jaw and does not make a sound. "You /will/ give me the information we seek, Prime. Unless you would prefer to see this poor little Autobot suffer for your continued stubbornness."


	12. Chapter 12 -- Escalation

Optimus Prime remains silent, his form visibly shuddering in a mix of anger, agony, and acute system over-strain. The controlling remote systems spliced into his back are not letting his systems compensate for the abrupt rise in activity. Internal alarms are screaming, starving for Energon, vents unable to cycle air fast enough, the conflicting sensory overloads-normally stasis lock would have kicked in by now, but that is being overridden.

Taking his silence for further obstinance, Starscream gives his Seeker comrades a sharp nod and hand-motion down at Mirage. Skywarp gives Mirage's shin a harsh kick, forcing the Autobot down on both knees, then grabs his arm in a grip similar to Thundercracker's. This forces Mirage's torso to straighten and lean forwards, straightening his back to the Seeker commander, who plants his foot and heel-thruster at the center of Mirage's back.

"Perhaps /this/ will unlock your vocalizer." Starscream's menacing hiss is almost lost as the thruster whines.

Mirage could feel the heat quickly rise beyond sheer discomfort, the smell of burning paint accompanying gouts of smoke and steam beginning to billow around him. He keeps his jaw clenched against the pain, his venting hiking up a step to compensate for the stress as his body shudders. Then, a ring of white-hot agony sheers into his armor plating as Starscream grinds his heel into the Autobot's back.

Mirage's torso arches away from the searing heat, head snapping up and face contorting in the agony, and his shoulders torque as they bend back to their limits. But Starscream does not relent, pressing firmly and harder into the spy's back as the heat continues to increase. Mirage tries to pull his arms free from the Seekers holding him in place, tries to get away from this searing torture, tries to fight back the scream bubbling up in his chest-

"ENOUGH!"

All optics snap to the Prime, whose voice peals like a lightning strike far too close for comfort. Scarscream's thruster cycles down and the Seeker removes it from Mirage's back, shifting his weight to stand on two legs once more. Mirage sags in his captors' grasp, cycling frigid air feverishly while ignoring the strain on his shoulder-joints.

Optimus Prime pulls his legs under himself and straightens, lifting his chin in outright defiance to the entire situation. Though his stance is clearly borne of a strength brittle at best, the look in his optics is anything but faltering. If not for his condition, one would almost believe he is completely hale and whole.

Starscream notes this, resting his hands on his hip-plates as he levels a triumphantly expectant look of his own in return. "So then?"

The Prime's defiant gaze turns deathly cold. "Do. Not. Bring one of /my/ soldiers into this, Starscream." His low rumble sends shivers of impending doom through the frames of the Seekers, no matter how they try to hide it. "You will never bring me low using such methods, nor will you gain what you seek."

Starscream's smirk freezes, his optics narrowing in anger without his stance changing. "Is that so." His arm snaps out, grabbing the back of Mirage's neck, and he pulls the Autobot upright yet still kneeling. A low snarl at the other two Seekers had them tighten their grips and adjust their stances to distance themselves from the spy yet keep him in place. "Then I suppose I don't need this scrap-heap after all."

Mirage feels the barrel of Starscream's null-ray tap against the back of his helm, drawing him out of pain-filled haze. He lifts his gaze, focusing on the Prime before him whose optics are still steeled but with a helpless glint flickering within. The wordless apology is heartbreaking to see, though none but the spy is paying attention.

Mirage, however, felt strangely at peace. /You still live. It is enough./ Energy spikes directly behind his helm, but his calm gaze doesn't even flicker. The shot should drill through his cranium and provide a quick, if not messy, termination-a surprisingly merciful death, all things considered.

The double-doors suddenly burst open, admitting a powerful explosion of purple energy.

Starscream's shriek shatters the tension, thrown back and away from the force of the fusion blast before he could fire on Mirage. Both Skywarp and Thundercracker recoil away from the heat and release the spy, who falls flat on his face before he twists his form to lie on his side, facing the double-doors only for a startling sight to greet him.

Megatron stalks into the room, cannon-arm still raised and barrel still smoking, a downright livid expression on his face. Soundwave almost ghosts around the Decepticon tyrant, firmly grabbing Mirage and pulling him out of the firing line between leader and Seekers. Too stunned to resist and too enraptured by the scene unfolding in front of them, the Ligier ignores the spike of pain from the movement and the almost protective resting of the Spymaster's fingertips on his shoulder.

Megatron takes no notice of anyone beyond the cowering Seekers, continuing to advance towards them. "I. /DESPISE/. Escalation." The Seekers' wings wilt in fearful apprehension from the statement, delivered coldly and devoid of mercy. "I did not order nor grant permission for ANY of /THIS/." A careless wave of his arm indicates the captives behind him. "You lot are fortunate /indeed/ that Soundwave warned me of your machinations before it /ESCALATED/ any further." He reaches out, grabbing Starscream by the throat and lifting him into the air, for now ignoring the clearly repentant Thundercracker and Skywarp.

Starscream chokes in his leader's merciless grip, blue hands weakly scrabbling at Megatron's wrist. "Lord Megatron... the information-"

"Do you believe that is the /only/ objective?!" Megatron punctuates his roar by bodily throwing Starscream back towards the double-doors. Ignoring the Seeker Commander's floundering and painful keens, he then turns to regard the prisoners for a moment. "Skywarp. Thundercracker. If you value your respective functionality, get yourselves OUT OF MY SIGHT."

The two other Seekers move as one to vacate the room quicker than reasonable, dragging their wounded commander and wingmate with them under Megatron's murderous gaze.

Silence descends on the remaining mechs in the control room, the only sound notable being venting breaths from all present and Megatron flexing his hands. His gaze is so intent on the double-doors that one could believe the panels would be primed to start bubbling and melting from the heat any time now.

"-Lord Megatron.-" Soundwave's soft melotone cleanly breaks the tension, drawing the Decepticon leader's attention away without drawing violence to himself. "-Your orders?-"

Megatron's gaze shifts without any bodily motion, regarding Mirage with an unflinching but dismissive glance. "I have little care for a rogue element, Soundwave. Deal with the Autobot as you see fit."

Optimus Prime shifts forwards, straining at the extreme forward limits of his bonds. "Don't you DARE-"

Megatron's fists clench, deploying a set of spikes hidden in the knuckles, and whirls on the Prime with an enraged roar. Metal clashes and screeches in protest, the sound echoing in the large room as the Prime's head snaps back and to the side from the right hook. Megatron presses the attack, aiming a vicious left uppercut squarely to the underside of Optimus' jaw, snapping his head back and staggering the Prime as well.

Optimus Prime stumbles backwards, somehow maintaining his footing despite the disorientation, and a sharp jerk of his arms-protesting gears or not-right him completely, once again squarely between the pillars. His form shudders, the strain of so much activity catching up to him exponentially, and he staggers noticeably as he braces himself between the pillars before he would otherwise collapse.

He slowly shakes his head to clear the rattling in his cerebral cortex, trying to clear the pain without replacing it with more. His faceplate, dented on one side with four deep holes pitted in the center, follows the head movement an instant out-of-step while rattling noticeably. Then, slowly, as the Prime lifts his head to meet Megatron's barely-contained fury once more, the faceplate sags more and more until the remaining weakened struts under his helm snap under the faceplate's own weight.

As the metal falls, it reveals a face rarely seen by anyone-least of all Decepticons. Long, dark, jagged scars mar the silvery 'skin', which is streaked and splattered with various coughed-up fluids previously contained and hidden. The scars are not open old wounds, but closed attempts at repairs from a time long past. One especially large scar is as wide as the optic it crosses, stretching like a lightning bolt from somewhere under the helm down the cheek to follow the jawline almost to the chin. The nose is split horizontally between bridge and tip, and even the lips are jagged where gouging wounds have scarred.

Suddenly, the Autobot leader appears so very much more vulnerable, easier to judge without the mask hiding so much of his face. This sight calms Megatron from his outraged blind outburst, the spikes in his knuckles retracting even as the Decepticon leader lowers and relaxes his fists. "I see..." The raspy rumble speaks volumes. He casually looks over his shoulder at Mirage, whose horrified stare at Prime causes the Decepticon tyrant to smirk knowingly. "Soundwave. You have your orders."

"-Affirmative.-" Soundwave pulls the Autobot spy to his feet, forcing Mirage to walk in front of him as they head towards the single door out of the room. Any attempt to even glance back is met with a sharp jab to the thruster-caused damage to his upper back, and the two soon disappear beyond the door as it hisses shut behind them.

Megatron casually picks up Prime's broken faceplate and tucks it into subspace. Though still clearly perturbed at Starscream's actions, the gears of thought are visibly turning over how to make the best out of the situation. He studies his longtime adversary, his lips parting as if about to say something, but decides instead to silently take his leave.

Optimus Prime pays him no mind, his entire focus intent on calming his systems before they go into a cascade failure none can stop. He bows his helm, his gaze falling to the floor, and tries to relax as much as he allows himself to until Megatron's departure fades from audible range.

All he can do is release a long, slow exhale-the mist shielding his scarred face from view even as screams echo from beyond the single door.


	13. Chapter 13 -- Ties That Bind

First Aid, Ratchet, and Perceptor wheel the offline but recovering Wheeljack to a 'private room' within the post-op area, separated by temporary walls but little more. Almost thirty-six hours have passed since the ill-fated race, and First Aid only notices this now that the Lancia's life is out of danger.

The trio lock the berth's wheels in place and Ratchet pauses, red hands gripping the sides of the berth in a tight grip humans would call 'white-knuckled'. His listless, haunted expression chills the Protectobot medic to the core, and the expression doesn't change even when Perceptor gently wraps one arms around the CMO's shoulders. No words are spoken, none needing to be said, as the Protectobot slips out of the room. Still, the closing doors behind him cannot fully block out the spark-wrenching sound of Ratchet finally and completely breaking down.

Only a war like this could make their best medic pull his own bondmate from the brink of death.

First Aid leaves the med-bay entirely, letting Grapple and Hoist handle the last of the minor injuries sustained from the concurrent missions. Thankfully, all has been quiet both outside and within despite a far darker atmosphere settling over the Ark. The Autobots have clearly not taken Mirage's capture and the cloned Optimus Prime well at all, making collaborators out of the most unlikely of mechs. First Aid can already spot Cliffjumper exchanging tales with Sunstreaker, whose cold tranquility contrasts harshly with the shellshocked expression he had while carrying in the false Prime.

The Protectobot ignores them for his own sake, continuing on to the command offices without interrupting them. He does not need further temptation to renounce his pacifist vows.

Thankfully, the command offices are still and apparently devoid of life. First Aid takes a spare moment to fully compose himself before rapping his knuckles on Prowl's office door.

"Enter." The muffled sound of Prowl's voice is, as always, as logically neutral as ever-a good sign, considering the vengeful air throughout the rest of the base. First Aid palms open the door and steps into the office.

The room is as tidy as ever, save the massive influx of datapads on the desk (though still neatly sorted and stacked). Prowl himself is sitting in his chair beyond the desk, back straight and doorwings held stiffly, though his stoic expression doesn't match his wearied optics. "Is this the medical report?"

First Aid walks just around the desk and hands the datapad directly to the acting leader. "Yes, sir. Shall I paraphrase it for you verbally?" A hopeful glint of Prowl's optics is the only permission First Aid needs. "Wheeljack has pulled through and is in post-op recovery, but both Ratchet and Perceptor have been placed on mandatory duty leave until he is out of critical condition. Grapple and Hoist have handled the minor injuries, all of whom have returned to light or full duty, and they have also completed the analysis of the false Prime."

Prowl's doorwings flick uneasily while he scrolls through the datapad to that specific section of the report. "So it was a clone?"

"99.9-percent identical, which is beyond Teletraan One's ability to distinguish a difference upon analysis." The Datsun starts to look worried for a moment, but First Aid reaches to the datapad and taps a notation. "The discovery of a radio transmitter within the damaged core of the cerebral cortex was the .1-percent difference. We also discovered that there were no spark signatures nor Matrix energy anywhere within the body."

The relief in Prowl's whole body language is almost painful to witness. Clearly even the 2IC had doubts about his judgement. "Thank Primus for small favors. Is the body salvageable?"

First Aid's optics crinkle at the corners in an implied smile he doesn't feel. "Yes. Perfect condition except for the cerebral cortex and main control linkage in the neck."

"Good. We'll likely need every piece at this stage." Prowl places the medical report onto one of the stacks, optics narrowing in thought. "With Ratchet off-duty, I take it you are acting Chief Medical Officer?"

First Aid cants his head faintly with optics narrowing, a grimace clear. "Affirmative. I have-"

Prowl's radio interrupts the medic with a series of sharp beeps. The Datsun holds up one hand before activating the device on his arm. "Prowl here."

="Sir, it's Blaster. I'm sorry if I'm interrupting anything, but there's an urgent transmission trying to connect to Prime's personal terminal. It's Cybertronian in origin."=

Prowl blinks once owlishly, processors almost appearing to bog down with such unexpected news. "Transfer the signal to my office terminal. Do whatever you must to maintain the signal and secure it from outside tapping." He rises out of his chair even as he turns towards the computer screen behind and to his left. First Aid considers slipping out at this point, but meets the police car's gaze and decides otherwise.

The screen erupts in static while Prowl types in a few commands, then Elita-One's face and upper torso appears on the screen as the background settles to reveal the internal structure of a Cybertronian bunker. The pink femme looks surprised at first to see Prowl instead of Optimus, apparently unaware of Blaster's rerouting of the signal. ="Prowl? What has happened to the Prime?"=

Prowl folds his hands behind the small of his back, adapting a 'parade rest' stance. "The Decepticons on Earth captured Optimus Prime almost nine Terran-days ago. We are currently under the Matrix Protocol. So far, we have had no leads in locating him." Elita-One looks rather unsurprised, seeming to take the news as if it had confirmed something she had already expected. "Has there been any space-bridge activity on your side?"

The femme commander shakes her head. ="I fear not. If there was, perhaps I could be of more assistance..."= Her voice trails off oddly, leaving Prowl at a loss for further questioning.

First Aid, however, notices something in her expression, a haunted look that reminds him far too much of Ratchet's expression back in the medical bay. "Elita-One." The femme turns a sharp look at the Protectobot medic. "Forgive me for asking a personal question at such a time, but..." He hesitates for just a moment. "...Are you and Optimus Prime bonded?"

Elita's expression flattens to excessive neutrality, optics narrowing and hardening defensively. She glances away, clearly debating to herself for a moment, before returning her gaze to First Aid and giving a sharp nod. Prowl looks over his shoulder at First Aid, canting his head to the space next to him, and the Protectobot medic steps forwards to officially join the conversation. "What have you sensed?"

Elita-One shutters her optics and cycles a deep intake. ="He is blocking the bond, so It is sporadic at best, but..."= Her lips purse. ="Cold. Core-freezing cold that reminds me of the Polar Wastes. Agony from wounds and torture alike, but especially here."= She motions to her right side without reactivating her optics. ="Systems are functioning beyond the point of failure, severe enough to stagger my own functionality when it hits."= She pauses, unshuttering her optics but her gaze is unfocused, as if trying to see something beyond what is in front of her. ="The last time I sensed anything, he was... furious? No, stronger than that... outraged, perhaps. There was also a name..."= Her optics blanch. ="...Mirage."=

Prowl's doorwings pin back and stiffen to their limits and First Aid's intake vent hitches mid-inhale. Before either could say anything, however, Elita-One half-turns away from the screen and nods once. ="Shockwave is attempting to trace this signal. I am sorry, I cannot be any further help."=

"You've been a great help, Elita-One, far greater than I can convey." Prowl's hands tighten into fists behind his back. "We will save him, Elita. He would do the same for any of us."

Elita smiles, but profound sadness and painful wistfulness taint the expression. ="I know. Elita-One out."=

The computer screen has barely enough time to black out before Prowl begins typing furiously, bringing up an Earthen world atlas on the screen. "First Aid, Skyfire is still on active duty, correct?"

"Yes, sir. He has been assisting medical ever since the Matrix Protocol was enacted." First Aid rubs the back of his neck, trying to remember exactly. "His duties have been focused on Prime's trailer and Roller. He got them fully repaired a few days ago, but neither have been responsive. He has been trying to get them online, but nothing has worked."

Prowl stops typing, understanding lighting his expression. "Of course they won't come online. Optimus Prime is out of their range." He narrows down the map to the northern hemisphere, from the Equator to the North Pole. "Contact Skyfire. Have him take Roller and remain on standby near the entrance. I will issue further orders at a later time. Understood?" First Aid nods once. "Good. Dismissed."

First Aid salutes-one fist resting on the center of his chestplate with a half-bow at the waist-before turning on his heel and departing as quickly as possible.

Prowl retakes his seat at his desk and leans back in his chair, spinning around to look at the map he'd pulled up. With one point marking the Autobot base and two others noting exact places where Prime and Mirage had respectively disappeared, the map doesn't look quite so large. "Not enough..." He mutters under his breath, doorwings tremoring in pent-up stress. "Still too much open area..."

The Autobot 2IC taps the radio on his arm. "Jazz, this is Prowl. How goes your investigation?"

="Badly. Raj and th' Stunticons went 'poof' just like Prime did, only none o' ours were caught in th' EMP this time."= The self-loathing in Jazz's voice makes Prowl frown in sympathy. The Porsche is clearly taking that whole situation personally. ="You got anythin' new?"=

"Perhaps." He taps his fingers on his desk, thinking even as he talks. "Keep Bumblebee on the case, but I have a new mission for you. It's time to take the initiative."


	14. Chapter 14 -- MAD

Megatron stands in the brig's command center, hands clasped behind his back as he watches the latest attempt to break the Prime-this time, by the Constructicons themselves. It has proven to be an effective tactic against Autobots in the past, using his soldiers as torturers and the 'medical personnel' simply continuing the pressure in-between sessions. The fact that Optimus Prime has been difficult to break in both mind and spirit has only prolonged it.

Soundwave enters the command center with a cube of Energon in one hand, ignoring the scene unfolding beyond the glass. Megatron barely acknowledges him in turn, his gaze not leaving the glass. "Report."

Soundwave takes his usual seat, resting the Energon cube on the desk in front of him. "-Starscream has been released from medical. The cloning machine has been fully disassembled and returned to the Nemesis. Thus far, no incidents of insubordination have been noted.-"

Megatron allows a smirk to tug at the corners of his mouth with a low 'heh'. "Amazing what a little incentive will accomplish in the end." His arms lower to his sides. "And our uninvited Autobot guest?"

Soundwave taps a button, a screen nearby activating and playing security camera footage of Mirage's cell, the subject in question apparently in less-than-restful recharge. "-Initial interrogation yielded little information. Subject has been placed in isolation. Further analysis pending.-"

The Decepticon leader nods an acknowledgement, though scowls as if he had ingested poorly-refined Energon. "If only information was our sole goal." He abruptly turns towards the doors leading out of the command center. "Lock down the brig as soon as the Constructicons depart. I wish to speak to Optimus Prime without interference-" he casts a meaningful look at Soundwave, "-or recordings."

Soundwave bows his head, leaning forwards slightly to accentuate the motion. "-As you command, Megatron.-" Megatron departs without any further words, leaving the Spymaster to his work.

By the time Megatron reaches the double-doors, the Constructicons were long gone and the locks had been reset so only Megatron himself could enter. Satisfied that his orders had been enacted perfectly, he enters the brig and takes his time to appraise the situation as he circles around the pillars.

Optimus Prime's condition is kept artificially stable, thanks in no small part to the network spliced into his back that now acts more like external life-support than operational shackles. The Autobot leader's appearance and stance, however, are anything but what one would expect of his proud and noble reputation. His head is lolled to the side, optics shuttered and facial expression blank, and his legs have almost fully given out on him by now. Only the shackles on his wrists seem to be keeping him upright.

The lack of any reaction to another presence in the room is concerning, but it is not entirely surprising. Bolstered by not only an additional prisoner to threaten by proxy, but also Prime's loss of his faceplate giving the indication of vulnerability, the torture sessions have been continuous with few pauses and new-found purpose. Could it be that the Prime has withdrawn to near-catatonia as an escape mechanism, or is it indicative of cracks beginning to spiderweb through his psyche?

Megatron stands just in front of his Autobot counterpart, red optics narrowing as he analyzes the Prime's rarely-seen face and the scars it bears. Though hardly the first time he has seen Optimus' face, it is the only time he has had enough time to study and memorize the unique features. He can't shake a deeply unsettling feeling that he has seen this face somewhere before...

He cups the Prime's chin in one hand to lift his head up, and the contact plus movement finally pull Optimus out of his mentally-offline state. Optics sluggishly unshutter with a dim grey light flickering at the center of the cracked panes, a far cry from the sky blue light that is so expressive by itself. Optimus Prime attempts to pull his chin free from Megatron's grasp, but the Decepticon instead turns the Prime's face to fully expose the long scar over the optic and along the jawline.

Even in a situation like this, Megatron cannot resist more verbal sparring. "Are you beginning to bend, Optimus?" He smiles unkindly. "Perhaps I should cut you down and let you grovel at my feet for your life."

Optimus almost visibly musters up the strength to wrench his jaw free of Megatron's grasp, straightening yet weaving unsteadily on his feet. "My life... has always been forfeit, Megatron." Weight shifts with an unchecked grimace as Optimus plants his pedes under him, then he meets Megatron's gaze sharply and defiantly. "You saw to that... vorns ago."

One of Megatron's optic-ridges rises to disappear under his 'brow ridge'. "Do tell."

The Prime is silent for a long time, gathering both thoughts and strength. When he does speak, it is haltingly careful. "I... was once an Iaconian archivist. I found the truth... about the Council... about your cause... even concerning history itself. The Council... cast me out... I knew too much... I was a... 'Polyhex sympathizer'..." Megatron's optics flare, but he remains stone-faced. "After that... I became a dockworker... at Storage Yard 67."

The Decepticon tyrant's jaw drops before he could control his reaction. How could he forget that location? It was the place where he and Optimus Prime first fought-first became enemies. "You were there before the battle?"

Optimus' unwavering gaze can't hide the painful memories, and he does not attempt to keep it back. "Do you remember... that young guide... a young mech who... all but worshiped the ground... you walked on...?"

Megatron's optics narrow. No, he has not forgotten that naive young mech's face... but the memory superimposes itself over Optimus Prime's face. The familiarity and the resultant shock makes the Decepticon take a step back. "Impossible! You-?!"

The Prime seems to chuckle, but ends up coughing up splatters of congealed Energon and dried oil instead. "Orion Pax died that cycle... by your hand. And by that same hand... you created your own... worst nightmare."

Megatron's hand twitches at the implication, of the memory of the first words exchanged between himself and the then-new Prime. "Alpha Trion." He sneers the name under his breath. "That old mech stole the Matrix of Leadership from Sentinel Prime's twitching corpse before my optics. He must have given it to you when he saved your life-and thus you have been Prime ever since, fighting me every step of the way."

Optimus Prime slowly bobs his head in confirmation. "If only..."

"Enough." Megatron is far too quick in cutting him off, avoiding such a topic before it could be breached further. "Such hypotheticals are useless."

The Prime is not so easily deterred. "Why... continue this war? The Council... virtually gone. The cause... complete... isn't it?"

Megatron scowls, bristling visibly as his shoulders hike. "And you? Certainly the great, selfless Optimus Prime doesn't have a personal vendetta against me." The statement seems to catch the Autobot leader off-guard, and Megatron presses the verbal attack as he steps closer for emphasis. "It all boils down to one universal fact of war, Prime: escalation. One side gets an edge, the other matches or exceeds the show of force, and the vicious cycle continues until one side cannot keep up any longer."

"I know... the definition, Megatron..." Optimus' cold statement is tinged with uncertainty at the edges. "I thought you... 'despise escalation'."

"Ah, I do." Megatron smiles cruelly, circling around the Prime as he gains the advantage. "But it has rarely been I-or even you-who has initiated the escalation. Our soldiers do a well-enough job of that on their own, irregardless of our knowledge or consent. Is that not true?"

The ensuing silence is answer enough.

Megatron surveys his opponent, his wounds and his strength, his expression and weaknesses. "You have the gall to ask /me/ why /I/ continue this war? Why can't /you/, the personification of Primus' will himself, end this conflict?" He stops directly in front of Optimus once again, moving close enough that they nearly touch. "You have sacrificed everything in this war, Optimus Prime. Yourself. Countless lives. Even Cybertron itself. I wonder if this world would be next if its end would guarantee my final defeat?"

Optimus Prime's optics flare with whitish-blue light and he flinches as if about to charge forwards, but Megatron grabs him by the throat and keeps him in place. The grip does not compress his vocalizer nor block anything, but the Prime's retort hisses out as if it does: "Never!"

For now, Megatron simply holds him like that. He has no need to do more. "Then this war will never end. We will simply continue fighting, destroying all we encounter, until there is nothing left. Just as it has always been... and so the cycle will continue." His optics narrow as he gives Prime one last verbal twist of the proverbial knife. "Forever."

The Prime's face betrays him as the words hit home, a mix of dismay, denial, and despair crushing him to the very spark. Megatron can even feel the Prime's body sag from the weight of the inescapable reality of such a scenario, his grip forcing Optimus to tilt his head back and show his throat.

Finally, it is done. Finally, the untouchable Prime will fall and shatter, just like those before him.

Suddenly, the Prime's body seizes and his systems hitch, doubling him over forwards from the force of it. Megatron recoils out of arm's reach, sending a glare up towards the glass behind the Prime on the immediate assumption that Soundwave had tampered with something and had interrupted them accordingly. The thought is discarded almost as quickly as it had come as an odd sound emits from Optimus Prime.

Body shivering uncontrollably, Prime lifts his head even as a shocked but distant expression dawns on his face. "Roller..." Recognition brings new life and focus back to him, his gaze sharpening on Megatron. "My components... you disabled them... but didn't... didn't take them too?"

Megatron is taken back by this turn of events. He was under the impression that the trailer-base and spy-unit had been destroyed outright, but if Optimus has suddenly regained a signal... "The Autobots." His gaze turns towards the ceiling as his fists clench.

"They are searching for us..." The realization draws Optimus' attention away from Megatron, outright ignoring him now. "...They will find us..." His systems hitch again, sending a new shudder through his ruined form as his head bows with a groan. "...They will rescue us..."

The Decepticon leader glowers at the newly-rekindled hope the Prime is exhibiting. He was so close... so /terribly/ close... but he will have to take what he can from it. There are more pressing matters now. "They will try." He spins on his heel and stalks towards the door, the sound of the Prime's broken, coughing laughter following him every step of the way.


	15. Chapter 15 -- Calm Before the Storm

Once again, activity returns to the War Room as the officers and command staff troop in. When Prowl issues an immediate summons invoking the Matrix Protocol, you get there as soon as possible. Even Ratchet, still shaken by Wheeljack's current condition, makes it in with time to spare and Sparkplug is at the table this time as the human element. Jazz is the last to arrive, having to race from Skyfire through the base to make it, and slides into his seat with little fanfare.

Prowl himself wastes no time with introductions, getting to the reason for the meeting immediately. "Autobots. How prepared are our forces for a full-scale offensive?"

The blunt question causes more than a few optic-ridges to rise, but it is Ratchet who answers first. "Exempting Wheeljack, we're at full strength." Prowl focuses on the CMO, optics shifting from professional neutrality to concern. "Wheeljack will pull through, but..." The CMO's hands fold tightly in front of his face, but it isn't enough to hide the tremors in the digits, "...it was close."

A united murmur offer both support and praise to the CMO, but Prowl keys a command into the table in front of them and stops further discussion on that matter. "I called all of you here and now to prepare a rescue operation." Heavy silence falls on the room as all optics focus on a holographic map hovering in front of them, the same map Prowl had been working on in his office. "We received a transmission from Cybertron, specifically from Elita-One. She gave us key clues in deducting where Optimus Prime and Mirage are being held."

The map refocuses to only the northern hemisphere. "The indication of very cold climates cancels any probability of Decepticon presence in the equatorial regions or the southern hemisphere. What we do not currently have is the range of the teleporter itself."

Jazz holds up one hand as if he was a student in class. "We may not need it." All optics snap to the saboteur, who rises out of his chair. "Prowl sent me an' Skyfire on aerial recon with Roller, who'd been offline since Prime went missin'. Durin' th' trip, th' little guy occasionally shrieked an' went offline at seemingly random intervals, but now I'm thinkin' we kept skirtin' Prime's maximum broadcast range."

New murmurs rise up, the Autobots glancing at each other as a renewed sense of hope and fear start to spread amongst themselves. "Please tell me ya recorded where Roller reacted," Ironhide growls, his expression making clear that he doesn't find this funny if it happens to be an elaborate joke.

Jazz almost immediately produces a datapad out of subspace with a winning grin. "I had Skyfire download the exact coordinates into this." He tosses the datapad to Prowl, who catches it easily in one hand with seemingly no effort at all. "Teletraan should take it from there, right?"

Prowl immediately plugs the datapad into the table. "Teletraan One, download the coordinates within the datapad and create a point for each coordinate given. Establish each point with a range no greater than a 1,200 mile radius per point. Once done, crop the map to only show the area where there are points and ranges."

"Acknowledged. Processing..." The screen on the datapad flares to life and points begin appearing throughout the Pacific and Arctic Oceans, stretching from North America to Asia. It isn't until all points are plotted that each point gains an extended circle around itself, denoting the requested range. It seems on the surface that the range lines overlap at random intervals, and the map crops and expands to focus solely between Alaska and Russia while stretching north to the Arctic Ocean and south into the Pacific Ocean.

Grimlock slams back down in his seat with an annoyed snarl, the support strut of the chair squealing in protest at the sudden forces. "Me, Grimlock, see nothing but big mess!"

"Wait." Prowl cants his head to the side, leaning in as he seems to focus on a specific point. "Teletraan. Enlarge the area at approximately 65.8-degrees North and 169-degrees West."

The image shifts and clarifies, magnifying the given coordinates, and the resulting picture causes every Autobot present to jump to their feet if they weren't already standing. Centered on the screen were two islands within the Bering Strait, one far smaller than the other, and the borders of every single point intersected over each other over the large one.

Sparkplug recognizes the island quite well, mainly from news reports during the Cold War. "Big Diamede Island. Russian-held land with a weather tower and military base. If something happened there, none of you would've heard about it because the best ally you've got is the United States."

"Old grudges die hard." Hot Spot taps his faceplate thoughtfully, then cants his gaze to the two black-and-whites. "Do you think they'll try to move him?"

Jazz's grin noticeably falters. "I don' think so, m'man. Roller kept actin' like he was in agony every time he came online. An' if Prime's health has gotten worse since th' already-bad state anybody last saw him in-"

"-He may be too medically unstable to risk moving." Ratchet bluntly finishes for the saboteur, his tone flat.

Everyone looks at each other, fear and uncertainty setting in along with reality. "So what can we do?" Silverbolt voices the question on everyone's mind. "We can't do nothing."

Prowl stares intently at the map, his logic center and skills at planning operations running full-tilt. If he was intending to build a base there, there's no way he'd risk human detection by building on the surface... which means... "A two-fold operation." Attention is fully directed to him as he talks out his plan. "The first wave is our main force, led by myself and Ironhide, designed to draw the Decepticons out of their base. This is a fight designed to keep maximum attention for the longest possible span of time with the minimum amount of casualties. The majority of you will be in this group."

He half-turns, doorwings held aloft as he turns his gaze from the map to each Autobot present in turn. "However, we are a diversion. The second wave, led by Jazz, will infiltrate their base however possible and locate Prime and Mirage."

Some of the Autobots, particularly Ironhide, look rather disgruntled at being part of the diversion. Ratchet is already seeing where Prowl is going with this and cuts it off before the murmurs get any louder. "We can't /all/ go in, especially not all four of us officers. We sure as Hell can't risk endangering our own comrades' lives because we all want to be the hero."

Prowl rests his hands on the table's surface, arms locked at the elbow and heavily supporting his upper body. "I understand how all of you feel." The empathy and barely-contained fury in the acting leader's voice calms the building unrest around the table. "But we are risking everything as it is. I will not lose the one and only chance we may have to get Prime back alive."

Jazz taps the table's surface rhythmically, his expression serious in thought. "I don't need many 'Bots. Bumblebee and Hound for sure, also Ratchet." Ratchet snorts a low 'hmph' softly, as if to say 'obviously'. "I'll also take Roller. Lil' guy can lead us right to Prime once we get inside."

"Done." Prowl straightens, turning flinty optics back upon the map. "Teletraan, show projected weather patterns over the next 72 Terran-hours." Thick clouds suddenly obscure the screen, text blocks showing projected temperatures and precipitation. Prowl notes with dark satisfaction that the data matches Elita-One's description of what she sensed from the Prime. "It appears a strong blizzard will strike the island in eleven Terran-hours, with the storm lasting for many hours afterwards. We will arrive with the storm and use it to confuse the Decepticon intel-gathering capabilities in determining our numbers and locations."

Everyone nods, expressions all around set in stone. The reality, the hope, has fully set in. Finally, their longtime search is getting somewhere. "Ah'll issue new rosters. Give me 'bout 30 minutes." Ironhide pushes away from the table, though hesitates as he glances at the other officers in particular. "Who's stayin' behind t' guard th' base?"

"Anyone without a mobile alternate form or otherwise not cleared for combat." Prowl turns his attention to Ratchet. "Is the medical bay prepped for a worst-case scenario?"

"Two or more near-dead Autobots?" Most wince in some way at the calloused, blunt way Ratchet states such things. "As far as the facility and supplies go, yes. With Wheeljack down, I'll need everyone I can get-Hoist, Grapple, and Perceptor in particular." He gives Ironhide a meaningful glare, but the red Autobot is already making the notes for the roster updates. "Medical has been ready since the Matrix Protocol was activated."

Prowl nods, shutting off the table's holographic projector. "Understood. All of you, return to your assigned duties and prepare to receive the revised duty roster. Be ready to assemble for this mission at a moment's notice. Dismissed."

All Autobots salute and file out in relative silence, optics bright in anticipation and hope-two emotions sorely lacking as of late. Only when Prowl is alone in the war-room does he activate his radio. "Attention all Autobots, this is Prowl. There will be an update to the duty roster within the hour. Be prepared for a mission briefing at any time beyond that point."

Prowl can't help but narrow his optics, planting the knuckles of one fist firmly into the table's surface. "We're going to get Prime back."


	16. Chapter 16 -- Flashpoint

They are on borrowed time.

Soundwave knows this better than everyone. Even if there wasn't the overhanging threat of impending Autobot attack, Optimus Prime cannot be sustained by the base-run life-support system/torture splicing indefinitely. Though their base has been placed on high alert, Megatron found it prudent to not divulge the full reasons why. None dared question, but most don't care. They're itching for a fight regardless of the reason.

With Starscream in charge of the base's defenses and Megatron shutting himself away to consider further options, it leaves Soundwave free to focus on the only unintended part of the entire operation-Mirage. He has intentionally left the Autobot spy alone since the day of his capture save for some crude repair-work to patch damage from Starscream's improvised torture. He intended for imagination to do the bulk of the work for him, but time is no longer on the Decepticons' side. If they are to lose their base and quite possibly their captives, they WILL at least get something more than an ambiguous-at-best moral victory.

At least, if Soundwave has anything to say about it.

The Tapemaster takes a step back from the captive spy and appraises the situation at the moment. Mirage is kneeling on both knees, arms chained straight out to the sides to opposite walls and stretched to near-dislocation. The interrogation has lasted for many hours without pause, alternating mental and physical tortures to quite cruel yet masterful effect. Damages incurred during the course of the physical part have been designed for maximum pain with minimal actual injury, as the point is not to kill the Autobot.

Yet.

Mirage's resistance has proven to be strong indeed, Soundwave will grant him that, but it's steadily weakening under the continuous pressure. It will likely not take much more.

The blank tape within his chest rewinds all the way to the beginning once more, ready to record over the useless data of past attempts. Soundwave chooses his next tool very carefully, a laser scalpel this time around, fully intent on finding what he seeks this time by. He kneels on one knee, looming over the smaller Autobot and forcing the captive to bend backwards as much as his current position would allow. At the same time, he runs the deactivated laser scalpel over sensitive panels and systems, sending involuntary shivers through the spy's form in trained anticipation of the pain to come.

Soundwave finds this to be far more effective than simply causing pain for the sake of the act. "-Resistance, futile.-" His melotone barely hums as the scalpel traces over vital fuel-lines in Mirage's neck. At the same time, Soundwave closes his free hand around the spy's throat and incrementally tightens his grip. "-Status: forsaken.-"

"...Lies..." The choked retort barely makes it out of Mirage's compressed vocalizer.

"-Negative. Full attention of Autobot rescue on the Prime.-" He leans in close, the point of the scalpel just touching the underside of Mirage's jawline, their helms almost touching. "-You are expendable.-"

For just a moment of weakness, Mirage believes the statement. And in that singular moment, the telepath strikes-driving deep into the Autobot's psyche, digging for the data he could not get from the Prime. Realization and resistance are moments too late, unable to stop what has begun despite best efforts otherwise. An unheard cry of frustration assaults Soundwave as he reaches for the data-

Sirens?

-Got it.

The wail of alarms assaults Soundwave's audios as he returns to himself, the tape in his chest whirring furiously as the stolen data is transcribed accordingly. His grip remains tight around Mirage's throat, physically frozen as he mentally reels from the sudden influx of data from his surroundings. Incomprehensible radio chatter of mechs talking over each other, as well as conflicting signals from Autobot frequencies, threaten to scramble the all-important recording. Fortunately, Starscream barks orders that redirects the chaos outside and calms the radio, and Soundwave is able to reroute the Autobot frequencies elsewhere for tapping and possible scrambling later.

"They're... here..." Mirage whispers, hope rising as his optics brighten.

"-For the Prime.-" Soundwave activates the laser-scalpel, driving the blade underneath the corner of Mirage's jaw and nicking the major fuel line. "-Not for you.-" He carefully pulls out the scalpel to avoid further damage and watches as a small but fast-moving trail of Energon flows down Mirage's neck.

He releases Mirage and rises, tossing away the scalpel as the tape in his chest slows to a stop. The wound is not necessarily fatal in and of itself-unnerving, to say the least-but the Autobot will bleed out in time if the flow is not staunched. Mirage is left in shock, trying in vain to pull at taunt bonds to free himself. Soundwave leaves him there, walking to the door and pausing at the frame. "-Prove me wrong.-"

As the door closes behind him, Mirage's scream of shattered hope soothes circuits frazzled by the alarms. But that Autobot's fate is no longer any of his concern, especially when compared to the current circumstances. The whole plan will be fulfilled or ruined with one final confrontation between leaders, and he shall bear witness to it.

* * *

The main Autobot force have done their job well, pulling the Decepticons' attention outside for a fight in the blizzard while a few noted mechs slip inside. The infiltration team can't risk contacting their comrades for fear of showing their hand too soon, but it may not matter. Static clouds the signal, a sign indicative of jamming-clearly Soundwave's work. They can only hope that everyone took the bait, and similarly hope that Roller knows where he's going.

Hound stops suddenly, a familiar twinge deep in his spark distracting him from following the rest of the infiltration team so closely. He /knows/ this feeling, knows he needs to follow it, but the mission...

A black hand falls on his shoulder, sharply pulling him back to the present and face-to-face with Jazz. "Mirage?" Hound can only offer an affirmative nod. "Go find 'im. If he knows where Prime is and his condition is still good, meet us there. If not, get him to th' surface and evacuate him. Understood?" Hound nods again, his relief and gratitude clear. "Go. Hurry!"

Hound immediately ducks down an adjacent hallway and transforms, rough tires finding purchase on the frost-covered floor and propelling him forwards. He weaves through the hallways, barreling through doors and heading into what appears to be a cell-block of individual rooms. It does not take too long then for Hound's sensors to pick up on Mirage's energy signature, his 'scent' if you will, but it's far too strong. As if the energy has pooled... most likely spilled Energon.

He skids to a stop near where the signal appears to be originating from and transforms, noting the door it appears to be behind. He plants his pedes into the frost and rams his shoulder into a doorway to break down the door instead of bothering with the lock. It buckles from the force, allowing Hound to peer through only to recoil from the sight.

Kneeling on the ground with arms stretched taunt out to the sides and bowing forwards, a lot of Energon has pooled around Mirage's legs. It seems to originate from somewhere under his jawline and neck, dripping directly to the floor with signs of streaming over his chest and down to the ground. Considering that Soundwave's 'scent' is also strong in here, what happened becomes horrifically clear.

Hound wastes no further time. Grabbing hold of the door and forcing it just open enough for him to slip through, he hastily grabs an Energon-stained rag from a nearby table and kneels in front of Mirage's bowed form. He runs one hand over the spy's fluid-slicked neck until he finds the source of the leak underneath Mirage's jawline, stuffing the rag into the wound to staunch the flow. He ignores a pained groan from the semi-conscious Mirage, ensuring the rag will stay in place before snatching up a discarded laser scalpel and starts cutting at the bindings.

"...Hound...?"

The Autobot tracker smiles despite the situation. "It's me." He finishes cutting through one cable, which snaps with a harsh TWANG and releases one of the spy's arms. "I'll get you out of here as soon as-"

"NO!" Mirage cuts him off sharply as he shakily presses his free hand against the rag, willing sluggish self-repair systems to close the leak internally. "Optimus... I know where he is. Just get me some Energon and I'll be fine. I can't just abandon him here!"

The other cable is quickly sliced apart and Hound helps the weakened Ligier to his feet, reaching over to an abandoned cube of perfectly good Energon. "Are you sure?"

Mirage nods firmly. "Positive, Hound. After what they've /done/ to him..." He gulps down the cube in one gulp, barely noticing his own Energon-stained state, and straightens himself up as the energy renews his system accordingly. "He would do the same for any of us, right?"

"Right. Take this." Hound pulls one of Mirage's spare rifles out of subspace and hands it to the spy, who checks over the clip to ensure a full magazine. "Can you run?"

Mirage shoulders the weapon, staring out the damaged door as if preparing himself for something. "I have to." He pulls the rag free from his neck and lets it fall into the pool of Energon at their feet. "Follow me!"


	17. Chapter 17 -- Salvation

They are coming.

Optimus Prime was mentally prepared this time when Roller returned to his range, this time taking direct control over his spy unit. He doesn't bother to gather information, transmitting a message in the beeps and whistles of Morse code to whomever happened to be around Roller.

'Find Mirage. Escape. Forget about me.'

Someone-he's certain it was Ratchet-replied in no uncertain terms that they /will/ find him, with or without Roller's help.

So be it then. It was with a heavy spark that he released direct control over his six-wheeled component and broadcasted a recall signal. Roller would take it from there, if they are indeed going to come for him.

That was time without measure in the past. Could have been minutes, perhaps hours-even a day, certainly no more than that. Prime has no sense of time, only an order of events. By now, he knows Roller is within the base. Who is with him, he can't tell.

Optimus Prime does not doubt his soldiers' dedication, but he certainly does not want them to see him in such a state. Thoroughly broken physically and teetering on the brink mentally, he fears his condition would crush their fighting spirit, their hopes... their faith in him. He has no idea how long it has been, how-or if-they have united without him, or anything else.

They are almost here.

Megatron bursts into the room through the double doors as always, which close and lock along with the single door at the opposite side. Soundwave must be monitoring again in some unseen location, and Prime has never been certain where the control room for the brig actually is. The Decepticon's expression betrays fury and... desperation?

Yes... that would be true, wouldn't it?

"Why... are you here...?" Primus, it hurts to talk. Even to think. "...The battle... is elsewhere..."

Megatron's arm-cannon snaps up, aiming the barrel dead-center on Prime's chest. At this range, it would undoubtedly vaporize his head and upper torso in one shot. "The battle is here, Prime. Between you and I, as it has always been." He chuckles cruelly, a sneer lifting his furious expression. "The fact your Autobots will only find your charred wreckage is merely a bonus."

The double doors... they're just beyond them.

Optimus Prime forces his body to work, to move, straightening as much as his severely weakened state would allow. His left shoulder groans in muted protest, the stretched metal just this side of breaking and snapping his entire arm off. "Then hurry... end this facade..." His optics narrow and lips pull back from his dental plates in an openly defiant snarl, pooling every ounce of strength he still has and digging deeper for more. By proxy, his voice stabilizes. "But always remember... you never brought me low, Megatron. Even if I die here... now... you will NEVER claim that victory over me."

Something snaps in Megatron's mind and his expression abruptly blanks out, purple fusion energy building deep in the arm-cannon's barrel. "So be it." The low, raspy statement devoid of any emotion whatsoever sends an involuntary tremor through the Prime's form. But the Autobot leader stands firm, chin rising in further defiance to his Decepticon counterpart. "Your life /is/ forfeit, after all."

Explosions rip through both sets of doors, causing Megatron to flinch away from the Prime without firing. Even the Prime staggers, buffeted on two sides by the simultaneous concussive force, sound, and light. Smoke and steam in equal measure flow into the room like water, completely obscuring his vision even as his perception of his surroundings both slows and quickens.

Shots ring out, too high-pitched to be Megatron's cannon, and the Decepticon leader fully ducks out of sight as shadows advance. At the same time, the sound of frozen metal shatters and pieces of chain rain onto the Prime's form as the chains holding his wrists-and himself-aloft go completely slack.

Optimus tries to stand on his own even as his arms flop uselessly to his sides with screaming shoulder servos, but his legs are no longer able to take his weight. His ruined knee-joints buckle, dropping him straight down to slam all his weight onto said joints. This fully destabilizes his balance and he pitches forwards, unable to stop himself from face-planting on the floor.

Metal hits metal, but it takes the Prime a long moment to realize that he isn't lying on the floor. Something solid with no visible form in front of him is supporting him. No, wait... not something, but someone. He knows this energy crackling between their armors. "Mirage... You..." Relief washes over him, optics shuttering for a moment. "...You're alive..."

"Yes." The whisper, barely audible over the sounds of combat and revealing a high-sparked Tower accent, confirms the identification. Slowly, Optimus is eased back to sit on his lower legs but still slumped against the invisible spy for support. "Just hang on. We'll get you out of here."

Prime can feel someone gingerly, expertly, running their hands over the spliced mess in his upper back, the cables and lines stretched taunt. He can also hear this same person cursing up a storm even over the sounds of combat nearby. "No... no-you... Ratchet..." By the Matrix, it's so hard to think! "...Leave... Escape..."

His systems abruptly flat-line.

Somewhere nearby, Roller screeches even as Optimus Prime himself chokes, vents and vocalizer paralyzed as his body goes into a massive seizure. His vision tunnels to a pinpoint as audio fades to muffled near-nothingness, all other senses losing track of reality around him. He stubbornly hangs onto consciousness by force of will alone even as his body goes into cascade failure, this feeling of dying seeming to last for an eternity.

Blinding pain sears across the Prime's upper back, snapping his body out of its seizure as the spine-strut arcs in an instinctive reaction. The agony that hits instantly rips a roar from his vocalizer, struggling against Mirage's grip keeping him from falling over. A sharp strike to the exposed indostructure jostles the internal systems into a sluggish, grinding semblance of functionality completely independent of any measure of life-support.

His senses return to him with overwhelming clarity, system diagnostics running at full strength and already throwing errors left and right. Prime coughs hard, a coagulated spray of various congealed fluids accompanying a dark burst of smoke from his mouth, before gasping for air like a fish out of water. His surroundings begin to run together and fade like a watercolor painting left in the rain, his internal battle to stay conscious being lost fast.

Optimus tries to speak one more time, to plead to his soldiers' self-preservation, but can't get the words out before the floor feels like it drops out from under him. All he can actually manage is one last deep groan before he spirals into the blessed void of oblivion.


	18. Chapter 18 -- Choices and Consequences

It's truly over.

The mission is done, the results unclear but unnecessary. The Prime has been freed, the Autobot medic working feverishly to stabilize his condition so evacuation can commence. Megatron himself is beset on all sides by more Autobots, preventing the Decepticon leader from finishing Prime off while avoiding injury themselves. At this rate, the Autobots will be able to leave on their own terms, believing they have defeated their eternal foes yet again.

Soundwave refuses to allow it.

He keys one final command into the computer within the brig's command center and backs away a few steps, visor just barely showing mirrored outlines of rapid-fire calculations. This will require exact timing and more than a little pre-cognizance, but both are well within his capabilities. His head tilts downwards slightly, then his form coils like a cat prepared to pounce.

"-Computer.-" His pedes grind on the floor as his whole focus is directed to the opaque glass before him. "-Initialize.-"

The alarm suddenly changes from a steady rhythmic blare to a sharp, fast-paced squeal. Blast doors slam down over every doorway throughout the base, including the double and single doors in the brig itself, thus trapping everyone accordingly. Soundwave charges forwards, leaping onto the nearest computer terminal to the glass and somersaulting through the glass in a spray of pulverized shards. Blast panels close over the glass panes like dominoes in his wake, completing the absolute sealing of the brig.

The Spymaster elects to not use his anti-gravs to slow his fall, instead slamming into the ground in a roll before surging to his feet. Without breaking stride nor slowing down, he charges at the Autobots as Megatron staggers back against a far wall.

The Autobots are caught completely off-guard by Soundwave's rather flashy appearance. Hound is easily batted away with a shoulder-check to the ground, not even slowing the Decepticon's advance. Bumblebee is sent flying into the double-door's blast doors with a sharp kick to the Minibot's side. Jazz backs off quickly, using the scant few seconds he gets to adapt and meet the Spymaster's charge.

This does pause the charge, hands grabbing at the opponent's shoulders. However, Soundwave does not allow Jazz to gain the upper hand, lashing out with a telepathic attack just strong and fast enough to rattle the saboteur. The Porsche falters, face contorting in unexpected mental pain, and Soundwave bodily throws him into both Bumblebee and Hound before any of the trio could recover and retaliate.

Soundwave holds his hand out to Megatron in a silent request and the Decepticon leader transforms, landing perfectly in the telepath's grip. The Tapemaster immediately focuses Megatron's sights not on the trio of Autobot attackers, but on Optimus Prime and those tending to him. Everyone freezes, the unspoken threat clear: 'Continue this battle, and your Prime is forfeit.'

Megatron laughs hoarsely. "Excellent, Soundwave!" The spymaster does not reply, cautiously repositioning himself to keep all Autobots in his line-of-sight without shifting Megatron's sights from the Prime. "This alarm... you activated the base's self-destruct sequence."

"-Affirmative.-" A quick check to the corner of his visor reveals the time left. "-Activation: two Terran minutes.-"

The Autobots' optics blanch as one. There isn't enough time for anyone within the room to escape, regardless of allegiance or condition. "So you'll kill all of us with you?"

Bumblebee's question raises a very tempting scenario. But such a result would have dire consequences for /both/ sides. A pity, that. "-Negative.-" His free hand lifts, palm up, a disposable space-bridge device primed for activation appearing within it. "-We all leave,-" he turns his hand slightly at the wrist, letting the cube fall, "-on Decepticon terms.-"

The cube hits the ground, activating in an impossibly bright flash of light as the ground heaves beneath everyone. Only Soundwave remains unaffected, long used to the effects, and keeps Megatron trained on the Prime throughout.

The light fades slightly, artificial energy replaced by natural sunlight-albeit not only from above, but reflected from the snow and ice surrounding them as far as the optic can see. The Tapemaster silently watches the Autobots, waiting for them to recover and attempt to reorient themselves to their new surroundings, but this is a mere courtesy. He already knows exactly where they are: the North Pole.

The Autobots regroup, cautiously placing themselves between the Prime and Soundwave to hopefully provide a defensive barrier to protect both the Prime and Ratchet. Jazz attempts to stealthily activate his radio, but the Spymaster aims Megatron down at the Porche's feet and fires a single shot-a simple warning. Not that it matters, as he is still jamming their frequencies to buy more time... time the Autobots do not have, considering the condition of the Prime.

"Do it, Soundwave." The Autobots flinch at Megatron's voice, uncertainty and fear radiating from their surface thoughts, and Soundwave retrains the silver handgun's sights on the Prime beyond them. But for some reason he cannot immediately place, Soundwave hesitates at the direct order.

Minutes pass with no indication of movement, and the silver pistol shakes in Soundwave's hand. "That is an order. I will not repeat myself."

Still Soundwave hesitates, his finger resting on the trigger-guard with the sights still squarely focused past the Autobots at the Prime himself. It would be so easy to follow the order, to pull the trigger and end everything right here and now, but it isn't how it /should/ end. This isn't even how Megatron himself wishes for it to end, even if he is too blinded by desperation and a narrow-minded view of 'victory' to admit it. They gave more dignity to /Sentinel Prime/, of all mechs, compared to this.

Soundwave still struggles with himself for a few long moments, only a flickering red visor giving any indication of his internal turmoil. Then, suddenly, he does the last thing anyone expects: he lowers Megatron to aim at the Autobot's feet. It's clear he's still ready to shoot anyone who gives him a reason to, but his decision is similarly clear.

The silent refusal shocks Megatron to silence, a faint tremor throughout the weapon the only indication of the Decepticon tyrant's anger. The Autobots, though also shocked, are far more wary, and Jazz finally voices the question hanging in the air over the entire group: "Why?"

Well, like the Pit Soundwave will explain such a rare showing of compassion. So, he instead states a more believable half-truth. "-Prime's status: critical. Medical facilities: required. Termination: imminent.-" The Autobots visibly bristle, but the telepath is not finished. "-Mercy must be met in kind.-"

Jazz scowls. "So you think that, since you're sparin' Prime a quick death an' saved all our afts t' boot, we should just letcha both go?"

Soundwave dips his head in a slow nod, but his melotone ominously drops an octave. "-Further delay: unadvised.-"

"He's right, Jazz." The Autobots half-turn to look at Ratchet, still feverishly working on the Prime's form while making do with what he has on-hand. "I can't keep this up forever. With our comms jammed, everyone probably thinks we were still in the base when it went sky-high. We need Skyfire here-now-and we can't wait for the main force to figure out our fate for themselves!"

Jazz grimaces, turning back to Soundwave with murder on his mind. "So he's still captive even out of that hellhole. That it?" Soundwave doesn't reply, both of them already knowing the answer to that. The Porsche inhales deeply, grinding his dentes before spitting a wad of congealed Energon into the snow between them. "Get outta here."

Soundwave activates his anti-gravs immediately and floats upwards and away from the Autobots, ceasing jamming as soon as he is fully airborne. He listens in as the Autobot radios erupt in worry-filled bedlam, creating a distraction while he makes good his escape.

The turmoil in Megatron's surface thoughts, impossible to block at the moment, finally settle on resignation above anger and... relief? "You do realize what you have done."

The tranquil fury of that rhetorical statement would shake lesser mechs into blabbering apologetic messes begging for their lives. Soundwave is not a lesser mech. "-So be it.-" Strangely, he does not regret his decision, even though he understands what is to come. "-I am prepared for the consequences.-"


	19. Chapter 19 -- Triage

Ratchet is furious. Not the roaring and cursing kind of furious, not even tranquil fury. No, this is far deeper, a righteous fury barely checked by the responsibilities at hand. He has treated those torn apart by Decepticon torture before, but this is a completely different level entirely. He's never seen external controls and systems integrated into a mech's vitals before now, controlling functionality and artificially keeping them alive for the sole purpose of torture and interrogation.

He certainly has never had the Decepticons throw a kill-switch on him, either.

That is what lies at the heart of his fury, in all truth. They nearly killed Optimus Prime under his own fingertips. The memory is still fresh-The Prime seizing in front of him, systems cascading into irrevocable failure. He severed the spliced bundle with a swipe of his laser scalpel, ending the external control, then struck his palm against the exposed indo-structure between the shoulder-struts. The percussive force was enough to restart the Prime's vitals on their own... but nobody needs to know just how close of a call that was.

As it stands, it's been all the CMO can do to keep the Prime alive as Skyfire screams through the atmosphere towards the Ark. Energon is on a constant fast-drip into bone-dry tanks and he's already reconnected everything torn apart by the splicing. But that is all he can do right now with neither the facility nor the supplies available.

Keeping a running passive scan on the Prime's vitals, Ratchet gets up and moves over to check on Mirage, who is resting his head on Hound's shoulder. The spy is in far better shape, comparatively speaking, but he'd been through a rough time himself. The worst is a perfectly round burn nearly piercing his upper back's armor, but there are clear wield lines indicating crude repairs. "Mirage, who fixed you?"

The spy's half-shuttered optics close entirely. "...Soundwave did. Starscream... caused it..." He shifts closer to Hound despite being as close as possible already. "They... used me..."

"Hey, hey." Jazz kneels down in front of Mirage, canting his head slightly as a warm smile graces his face. Ratchet moves to the side to get a better look at the burn damage, letting the Porsche take Mirage's full attention. "Don' think on it too hard, a'right?" Mirage dully nods and Jazz lightly rests one hand on the Ligier's shoulder. "You're safe now. We'll be back at base here shortly." Mirage nods again and almost immediately slumps against Hound's shoulder, the motion almost hiding the quick hand-gesture Jazz makes to the back of the spy's neck.

Ratchet smirks in relief. One less mech that needs nonexistent painkillers. "Appreciated." Jazz nods once, the warm smile disintegrating as if it was never there, and returns to Bumblebee, who is currently keeping watch over an offline Roller.

The CMO checks on the deep but small cut under Mirage's jaw, a wound he couldn't check with the spy conscious. Though the internal repairs have taken care of the worst of it, it's a fragile fix at best. He carefully administers some liquid rubber to cover the breach in the Energon line, negating the possibility of a new Energon leak sprouting from the old one.

He casts a gruff look up at Hound, who is cautiously watching every move the medic makes. "You sense anything?"

Hound shakes his head. "He's locked up tight. It'll probably be a Terran-day or two before he'll let me in, longer to believe reality."

Ratchet grunts, cataloging that piece of information for later. If Mirage was convinced they wouldn't come after a few days, how much worse will Prime's disbelief be after almost two weeks? "I'll need you to carry Mirage to the medical bay for treatment. I'll give you further details in a moment." Hound simply bows his head in confirmation, wrapping one arm around Mirage's form to keep the offline mech stable.

Ratchet then sends Bumblebee a querying look across Skyfire's bay only to see the Minibot making a few hand-motions in their own version of 'sign-language': 'I'm fine, focus on Optimus'.

Ratchet puffs up and makes a few curt hand-motions of his own in return: 'Oh, like I need you to tell me how to do my job'. But back to the Prime's side he goes, just in time to replace yet another emergency Energon pack. He ran out of these a long time ago, and Skyfire's supply is nearly exhausted as well.

As he works, he activates his radio to the medical-only broadband, rerouting his vocalizer to speak solely through the radio without the rest of the team overhearing. ="Ratchet to medical crew. I needed a sitrep fifteen minutes ago!"=

First Aid's brisk voice responds first, already in full primed form. ="We've got minor to moderate injuries here. None life-threatening, Class 3 at worst. OP-1 is on standby to receive and OP-2 is being prepped as we speak."=

="Belay prepwork on OP-2 and move all equiptment to OP-1. I've got a Class 3 myself and a Class 4-borderline-5, both of them rescues."= Ratchet elects to ignore the abrupt dead silence on the line after such a statement. ="I need a gurney equipped with mag-locks at the entrance ready to recieve the 4-5."=

="Already done and on standby to receive."= Perceptor's calm voice also includes a warm surge through the bond, complete with a mental picture from the scientist's point-of-view of the blue sky just outside the Ark. ="I also have mobile life-support ready for hook-up."=

Ratchet pinches the bridge of his nose-strut, fingertips brushing the inside corners of his optics, and exhales heavily. ="Understood."= He casts a quick glance over the other Autobots within Skyfire, already mentally triaging while also ignoring Jazz's stare at his direction. ="Grapple, Hoist: I know you both are busy with the non-critical. I will be sending you two Class 1's and one Class 3. After you've cleared the medical bay of all wounded, go to OP-1 for further instructions. Click your transmitter if you can acknowledge my orders."=

Two clicks, one echoing the other, immediately follow.

="Good. Standby to receive."= Ratchet rests one hand on the floor. ="OP-1 team, prepare to receive! Perceptor, you will be assisting me directly. First Aid, you're my second pair of hands-follow my lead. Skyfire, can you be First Aid's assistant?"=

A tremor passes through their transport's frame that has nothing to do with turbulence. ="I... can, yes. What would you need me to do?"=

Ratchet glares over at the 'computer' mounted at the far end of the bay. ="Whatever /First Aid/ needs. A tool, a part, a rag, another pair of hands, even high-grade. If you can't do it, say so now or face my wrench later!"=

="I..."= A faint click as a few chortles echo through the line, then Skyfire resumes with more confidence in his voice. ="Yes, I understand. I'll do it."=

Ratchet locks his jaw, his hand on the floor closing into a fist before he plants the knuckles against the surface. ="Copy that. All units, take your places and prepare to receive."= His gaze almost unwillingly turns to the unconscious Prime's face, their leader's expression contorted faintly in subconscious pain. ="May Primus guide our hands in healing and comfort. Ratchet out."=

He half-spins on his pedes as he deactivates his radio. "Alright, listen up!" He points at each Autobot in turn. "Hound, Bumblebee-take Mirage and Roller to the medical bay and wait for repairs. Jazz, I will need your help getting Prime onto the gurney and then you will need to clear Medical Route Ghost to OP-1. Am I clear?"

The medic doesn't wait to hear the united acknowledgements, returning his full attention to Optimus Prime. Skyfire activates the intercom and issues an update of his own: "ETA to base: five minutes. Beginning descent now."

The change in elevation, faster than a human could handle but not even uncomfortable for a Transformer, seems to trigger a reaction out of the Prime. With a sharp intake of air, Optimus' optics snap open in a flare of white optic light and his limbs shift as if preparing to move. Ratchet immediately (but carefully) plants one hand on Optimus Prime's ruined chest panels and pushes down, keeping him flat on his back. This only draws their leader's gaze directly to him, his scarred and unmasked face full of dismay at the sight of him, and his mouth moves with barely a sound as if trying to speak.

Ratchet leans in, blocking Prime's face from anyone else's view, but Optimus reaches up with one gnarled hand and pulls the medic even closer until his audio is nearly touching the Prime's face. "Why...?" Stunned, the Autobot CMO can barely equate the broken rasp he hears now to the usual strong but gentle voice he expected. "...Why... are you... still... here...?"

The CMO's optics harden. "You're my patient, you damn fool. You think I'd just abandon you?" His hand scrambles through his toolbox, searching for a particular object by touch alone and quickly finding it. "Hang on for a while longer." Fast as a snake lunging towards prey, his free hand stabs a syringe into the side of the Prime's neck, injecting a sedative directly into the barely-functional systems. "We're almost home."

The Prime's optics flicker unsteadily, pain and despair overriding any acknowledgement of the medic's words, before the sedative fully takes hold. He sinks back into unconsciousness, his arm falling back to the floor with a hollow CLANG that startles the rest of the Autobots into silence.

The CMO slowly sits back up, pointedly ignoring the increasingly worried looks he's getting, gears clearly turning behind cold blue optics. Suddenly, the CMO bellows a roar that almost shakes the framework around them. "SKYFIRE!" The floor drops out beneath everyone as lift is lost for a moment, even their poor transport taken off-guard by the abrupt change in Ratchet's temperament. "On the ground! NOW!" A harsh swipe of tools back into the toolbox punctuates the order.

Skyfire recovers surprisingly quickly as the rate of descent increases, creating an odd weightless feeling in everyone's fuel-tanks. "We're coming in for the landing now. Prepare for departure."

Ratchet points directly at Jazz. "You! Over here!" The saboteur immediately lopes over, kneeling at the Prime's opposite side while the CMO finishes gathering up his tools. The CMO simultaneously broadcasts promises of rebuilding doom to anyone he catches loitering in the halls and-or staring. The one for Red Alert is particularly vicious, should even one security camera be caught moving in their wake. Nobody has the bearings to tell Ratchet he'll be too focused on his patient to notice anything of the sort.

Skyfire slows noticeably as a squeal of rubber on rock with simultaneous jostling notes touchdown, then momentum fully stops and the ever-present sound of thrusters die down. The passenger ramp lowers, revealing the entrance into the Autobase and Perceptor standing just outside of it with the gurney at his side. Hound and Bumblebee hastily leave, getting themselves out-of-the-way before the scientist could board.

The CMO gives himself a moment to calm himself and refocus as Perceptor approaches with gurney and life-support in tow. The full understanding of just how deeply injured the Prime is, both in body and mind, had affected him worse than he'd thought. Well, that is about to change. Ratchet would sooner be damned than let the Decepticons get one last victory over them, and he will prove it by saving the very life they almost extinguished.


	20. Chapter 20 -- Hope Despite Hope

Time passes in a blur, all bright lights and loud voices without meaning. The pain has dulled to a maddening ache, dwarfed by fiery liquid flowing through his systems and a chill deep in his core that won't go away. Optimus Prime finds himself barely able to unshutter his optics in the rare semi-conscious state, but his processor is always too scrambled and muddled to make much sense of anything.

He can pick up Ratchet's voice in the chaos, and the familiar sound of the CMO barking orders provides the Prime with an anchor to weather the confusion. However, questions he is currently incapable of asking torment him every cognizant moment. What happened to Mirage? Where are they now? Why is Ratchet still /here/?

The unknowing is far worse than any torture the Decepticons had put him through and may yet still. As far as he knows, the rescue attempt failed and Ratchet is now in the same spot Mirage was.

Suddenly, his chaotic surroundings abruptly calm, leaving little more than the beeping and whirring of machines matching his own vital signs. His optics unshutter, but only just-and he can't make out anything due to the lenses being badly uncalibrated. His body feels too heavy to move and aches too much to try, but there is still that deep core cold making his armor-panels shiver. There feels like a material covering him completely from the neck down, which seems to be helping the cold... somewhat.

Ratchet's voice draws his attention elsewhere, his head turning but unable to see anything at all-much less pinpoint the CMO's location. "He's not ready yet." It sounds like he is talking to someone, and the sharply buisness-like tone confirms the Prime's fears. "With that kind of damage to this extent, you expect him to be ready to just waltz right out of here?"

A voice responds, but it is too low for the Prime to identify and too muffled to understand the words.

"I /have/ been keeping him sedated, but cycling and mixing new combinations won't last much longer. He /will/ wake up, sooner than later, then what're you going to do?" The initial response sounds heated, but Ratchet cuts them off almost immediately. "He's been through the Pit already. He won't just sit around and wait for it to start all over again. I won't let it-" Ratchet stops abruptly, a long pause bringing silence to the room before a harsh vented exhale breaks it. "Fine, fine. We'll see what happens when he fully wakes up. Now if you /excuse/ me, I have a..."

Unconsciousness pulls Prime away from the conversation, disconnecting him from the flow of time into darkness.

* * *

When he next activates his optics, he feels strangely... better? His surroundings have dimmed and are not nearly so overwhelmingly bright to his optics, the machines are silent if not outright gone, and his mind is far clearer than it has been... in a very long time. The ache in his entire form has decreased enough to be ignored and the lingering chill so deep in his core seems to have been warmed away. He can feel air passing over his whole face, so his faceplate hasn't been restored just yet...

The Prime lifts his head, seeing the blanket still draped over his form, and tries to raise an arm to pull the blanket off. 'Tries' being the key word, as he finds himself fully bolted down onto the berth and no amount of attempted movement could make anything from the neck down budge. Panic sets in as his mind immediately twists to his worst fear-the rescue operation failed. /THEY/ have him still.

"Optimus!" Ratchet's familiar bark freezes him mid-struggle, drawing his blurred vision towards the voice. A fuzzy boxy, white form approaches, a red hand resting on his shoulder-though the Prime flinches from the contact. "Calm down. I mag-locked you to the berth so you wouldn't hurt yourself. I'll free you once I'm certain you can handle it, but I need you to stay calm. Understand?"

Optimus Prime nods once, optics whirring furiously but ineffectually as his vision attempts to recalibrate on its own. "Y... Yeeezz..." He grimaces at the crackling and spluttering of his own voice, which is unsteady at best. "Opticsszz... Vision... blurry..."

Ratchet glances down, optics narrowing as Prime feels his audio-cover being messed with. Something plugs into the exposed port and new code scrolls down the Prime's vision as his systems download and install it. He shutters his optics as the mechanisms behind the lenses whirr and recalibrate properly on their own. When he reactivates his optics again, his vision is completely crystal-clear once more. His surroundings seem familiar, but he cannot quite place where he's seen it before. "Perfect."

A familiar twinge in his chest sends a shiver through his form, two simultaneous connections registering after far too long of dead silence. "Roller... my trailer... Where-?" Ratchet points to the side and the Prime's gaze follows, locking onto the trailer sitting in base mode with Roller sitting in the middle of it.

As if acknowledging Optimus' questioning ping, Roller beeps and whistles merrily, headlights flickering as if waving. The Prime's initial relief at seeing them hale and whole turns to horror-he knew Roller was present at the rescue attempt, but did they get the trailer too? He sends the command for the trailer to revert to mobile form and return to subspace, banishing the thought before it could build and spiral into panic. At least his components cannot be harmed in subspace.

Ratchet's mouth is pursed in a thin line, professionally neutral in manner as he pulls off the blanket covering the Prime's form. Though his body is once again whole, most of the colors are... off, a few ticks too grey. The CMO doesn't give him time to question, though. "I'm going to release the mag-locks, but I only want you to sit up-nothing more. Understand?" The Prime rumbles a wordless but grudging agreement, which seems to be good enough. "Alright. In three... two..."

The locks release and the Prime snaps upright before 'one' is reached, but his equilibrium can't keep up. Optimus slumps back to the berth on one elbow while covering his face with the other hand to stave off the ensuing headache. This confirms to him that his faceplate is indeed missing, and a slide of a finger underneath the cheek-guards of his helm show that neither metal plate nor mechanical components are installed.

His vocalizer clicks and grinds as he tries to clear the static lingering within. "...Mirage...?"

"They got him out." Ratchet's immediate and confident reply eases Optimus' concerns, though the bitter thought that they exchanged one prisoner for another is an unwelcome reality. Not that the medic is letting him linger on that for long. "Now. I need you to sit up, face me, and let your legs hang off the table. I need to check your joints and range-of-motion before allowing you to try standing."

The Prime just nods, straightening back up-though far slower this time-and moving as ordered. Only when he is properly in position and in no danger of falling over does Ratchet begin his checks with the neck-strut and working his way downwards. Optimus lets his mind wander briefly, his mind running on all cylinders trying to process everything all at once, before a sharp pain in his left shoulder snaps him out of his thoughts. It isn't the grind of a repaired servo as he expected, but the hitch of a brand-new part needing proper recalibration.

As Ratchet works on resetting the recalibration accordingly, the Prime glances over to a seperate table where a stripped body lies, missing almost all of its armor and a good many joints and vital parts. The build, type, and even the color of the remaining armor pieces tell him exactly what was done and just to what extent Ratchet had to go to repair him. "It was... that bad...?" The quiet rumble, a ghost of its usual sound, might as well have been a shout.

Ratchet pauses mid-adjustment, head canting downward to hide his optics beneath his chevron. "Yes." He finishes the adjustment and retries that joint's range-of-motion test, speaking further as he works. "I would have done a tri-core transplant into a new body, but your spark was too close to extinguishing. Had I tried, I could have killed you." He shifts to stand directly in front of the Prime, tapping knuckles against the windshield chest-panels. "The only thing that kept your spark beating is in here, and I couldn't move that even if I wanted to."

A warm throb echoes deep within his chest, spreading a relaxing wave through his body. Yes, the Matrix... of course it could do that. Optimus lowers his gaze from Ratchet, shoulders sinking as well. "I am sorry, old friend."

Ratchet snorts as he tests the other shoulder next, administering oil to the joint if it hesitates even incrementally. "This wasn't self inflicted, so what're you apologizing to me for? Dragging me into this because you were wounded?" Optimus flinches, the words hitting bulls-eye. "That's my job. Just as it is for you to lead and provide a noble sacrifice for your troops' sake if need be." He moves on to check the joints and gears from the waist down, giving those far greater scrutiny. "It's the way it is, even if nobody likes it. You know that."

Optimus Prime rumbles a rather non-committal sound but says nothing further, letting Ratchet finish the tests without further conversational distractions. He shutters his optics, fighting claustrophobia stemming from an increasing sense of familiarity to their surroundings. He can't tell if the familiarity is good or not, or even where they are-only that they both need to get out.

He will not endure further torment, nor will he permit one of his own soldiers through the same.

A tap on his left shoulder draws him back to the present reality while a low huff pulls his gaze back up to Ratchet's. "Prime, I know you've got a lot on your mind, but I need you to stay focused on the here and now." Chagrined, the Prime offers a thin apologetic smile that feels more painful than honest even to himself. The medic's gaze softens just a little, conveying his understanding without words.

The berth suddenly feels like it drops down from under the Prime, causing him to start moments before he realizes that the berth is neither dropping as quickly as he thought nor is he falling. It only stops once his pedes are resting flat on the ground and his legs are bent at a perfect 90-degree angle.

Optimus Prime leans forwards and rises to stand on his own two feet, finding himself surprisingly stable with his legs having more than enough strength to support himself. He shakes his head slowly, driving away the last remnants of vertigo, and shifts his weight from one leg to the other in one final test before taking a step. At first, it is staggered shuffling while supporting himself with Ratchet on one side and the berth itself on the other. Soon, however, he straightens as he gains more confidence and his walk becomes more certain. Even the lingering aches he'd almost forgotten about finally work themselves out, though his right side still has a kink deep within that won't unravel. Perhaps phantom pains.

He hesitates upon catching his reflection on a polished mirror surface, finally getting a good look at himself after too long. Almost all of his armor is, in fact, too greyscale compared to his usually vibrant hues, and there are signs of superficial damage still on the surfaces all around. The old scars on his face look stark black when compared against the silvery flex-metal, and his optics are a near-healthy sky blue-though themselves still too washed-out compared to normal. He twists his torso, appraising the repaired canisters and armorwork on his upper back where spiced cables and wires once were, before he stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling as far as he can-

He is back /there/, colder within than without, strung up by his wrists between two pillars-

Prime's knee-joints buckle and slam into the ground as he curls in on himself, leaning forwards with his own arms wrapped tightly around his torso. His right side screams with pain his sensors don't pick up, his body shivering with psychological stress making him feel Polars-cold despite the heat around him. He barely registers Ratchet kneeling next to him, hearing yet not listening to the medic's calls for his attention.

The claustrophobia and vertigo meld together with the stress, leaving him to question the reality of his current circumstance. Is this truly happening, or is this some fantasy he concocted to escape the true reality back /there/?

Optimus surges to his feet, one hand resting on Ratchet's shoulder for support-though even he isn't entirely certain if it's mental or physical support needed. "We must escape."

Ratchet's optics blanch as his jaw drops. "Now?!"

"Now." Optimus Prime pushes off and away from the medic, stalking around the room like a caged predator. The familiarity is stifling, the walls are closing in, and not knowing where he is or who is in control is outright killing him. "I will /not/ go through this /again/." His voice rises in volume and panic alike even as a razor-sharp calm brings focus to the chaos within his own mind. "I will NOT be rendered helpless! I will NOT be forced to watch one of MY OWN soldiers be tortured AGAIN because of ME!"

Ratchet steps in front of him, startling him to a standstill, and stares up at him from under his chevron. His mouth twitches at the edges as if he can't quite find the right words to say at first, seeming to be searching the Prime's face for something. "You're certain you can make it outside?" His question is quietly calm, almost ominously so, which calms Prime's rage to manageable levels. "You will only get one chance at this."

Optimus Prime narrows his optics at the medic in turn, never more certain of anything than this. "Yes."

Ratchet's mouth twitches again and he bows his head in thought. "From what I remember, there's only one path linking here and the outside. It isn't a small distance, and an alarm will go off the instant I unlock the door." He crosses his arms over his chestplate, staring straight into the Prime's optics as if searching his leader's very spark. "So I will ask again. Are you CERTAIN?"

"My answer will not change." The Prime shifts his stance to tower over the shorter medic, though the Autobot CMO does not look intimidated in the least. "We cannot-WILL NOT-stay here a moment longer."

Ratchet does not change his stance, though one hand lifts to reveal a wrench twirling rhythmically between his fingers. Optimus recognizes the tool as Ratchet's favorite throwing wrench a split second before the medic's arm snaps out to the side towards the doors. The tool slams into a glowing yellow panel, which turns a purple shade upon the contact as the doors slide open. True to Ratchet's warning, an alarm blares at that exact moment-a blare of three high-pitched sirens in one-second intervals.

"GO!" Both Autobots lunge as one towards the open door upon Ratchet's shout, the medic scooping up his precious wrench from the ground without breaking his stride.


	21. Chapter 21 -- Breaking Point

Prime quickly outpaces his CMO due to his advantage in stride length, but refuses to move so quickly he outright abandons Ratchet. The familiarity of his surroundings increases exponentially as he weaves through the halls, relying on memory only his subconscious can access. He can hear voices, sounds he recognizes, but doesn't take the time to analyze any of it. They're out to stop him (and Ratchet) from escaping, and he will take them down if he has to.

A flash of light around the next corner draws him towards it, heedless of being exposed to Those Out To Stop Him. But the voices and alarms fade as his pedes hit a downwards-sloped ramp and he stumbles, barely keeping his balance as he descends. He takes a few extra steps onto the hard-packed dirt and stone road, simultaneously turning in a circle to fully take in his surroundings-which he now recognizes all too well.

Yes, he does /know/ this place. The mountain with the back-end of a ship sticking out of it. The recovering woods full of native wildlife. The blue skies shielded by intermittent dark clouds that threaten rain but rarely deliver. This is home away from Home, the Autobase on Earth. The Ark, half-buried in Mt. St. Hillary.

Prime continues to slowly turn around and around without getting dizzy, his mind running full speed to attempt understanding this new information. Yes... yes, those voices. Those were Autobots-his soldiers-not Decepticon captors. Which means...

"Prime."

Sparkplug's call, quiet and compassionately understanding, halts Optimus' spinning and pulls his gaze down to the human far too close than safe to his feet. Male, middle-aged, balding, a slightly bigger-than-healthy waistline... he knows who this is. "S... Sparkplug..." Optimus Prime runs one hand over his face, trying to physically his confusion. "Is it... truly you?" His hand covers his mouth, hiding his face from view but not his expression. "Am I... really here? Or is this-all of this-" he waves his free hand back towards the Ark, towards where Ratchet stands waiting on the ramp, "-just wishful thinking?"

Sparkplug reaches out and rests his palm flat against the side of the Prime's shin, the only comforting contact he can give. Strangely, Optimus Prime doesn't flinch away from the contact-perhaps more afraid of accidentally kicking the human than of the contact itself. "Your sensors do not lie, Optimus. You are /here/. You are /safe/." He nods back to the entrance ramp, where the other three Autobot officers-Jazz, Prowl, and Ironhide-join Ratchet's side on the ramp. "This is reality, sir. It is OVER."

The Prime's hands shake as he stares at his officers, wanting to believe the human's words but having no faith to make the leap. "How can I be so certain?" He looks around haphazardly, frantically, searching for any signs of Decepticon trickery or something out of place that would prove this reality to be a real illusion. Finding nothing obvious, his gaze returns to the four Autobot officers, who are now approaching him.

He still keeps his hand over his lower face. He can't let them see him like this! He has to keep it together longer than this! "We... I... I-I-I-I can't...!" His vocalizer locks up entirely as words fail him, his fears and thoughts running together in an incoherent chaotic mess.

Ironhide is the first of the four officers to reach him, squeezing the Prime's shoulder in an warm Outlander gesture. "Optimus, you've got yer lifeline. Back /home/, remember?" The Prime's gaze snaps skywards, searching the sunset-painted sky for the flickering light of home. "If ya cain't trust our word, what about hers?"

The Prime lets his gaze unfocus, turning his attention inwards as he tentatively unlocks his bond and reaches through it. What he receives in return cannot be put into words-it can be best be described as if Elita-One has pulled him into a tight embrace and refuses to let go. Images, feelings, sensations drown him-show him how she persevered despite the unknowing of his capture. Overwhelmed by guilt over what he has put her through and still confused about the 'now', he nearly withdraws from the bond-but Elita doesn't let go. Instead, a memory resurfaces in perfect clarity, a private memory only the two of them would have-this time told from her own perspective:

::The sounds of the Decepticon occupation at Storage Yard 67 draws both of their attention outside of the small room within the clinic. The one she recognizes as once being Orion Pax bows his head, fists clenching and unclenching in thought.

"You are going." Her voice is slightly deeper than it once was, but still certainly Ariel. He gives her a startled look, but nods once in the affirmative. "Let me go with you."

"No, Ariel." Primus, how did his voice get so deep so quickly? "Alpha Trion is still working." He motions to the back of the room, where her gaze is drawn to the elder maroon-and-purple mech feverishly at work on someone suspiciously similar to Dion. "Someone must protect him-and this clinic-while I drive the Decepticons from the Storage Yard."

She can't help but smile. This is certainly Orion Pax, as stubborn as ever in the face of adversity and forever thinking of others before himself. This is still the mech she loves, despite the physical changes made to them both. "I understand." She reaches out, touching his forearm gently with her fingertips. "Just return to me."

He takes her hand and pulls her close into an embrace for a moment that seems to last for an eternity. "Always." He pulls back from her, a warm smile in his honest optics, before he turns and leaves the room for the battlefield outside.::

The Prime returns to himself for a moment, faintly realizing he is being supported on all sides by his officers but not acknowledging them just yet. Though he is certain of his own bondmate, the reality of his situation is far less so. {/What do you sense from me, Elita? Am I still... THERE...?/}

Elita-One does not reply in words. She sends him the dying warmth of a descending daystar, sounds of creatures unfamiliar echoing beyond sight, a breeze carrying organic smells on its wisps, the bracing contact of friends around him...

All what he currently registers himself.

He slowly looks around himself-at Ironhide to his right, Jazz to his left, Ratchet off to the side holding a medical scanner, and Prowl in front of him. His vents slow to labored intakes, form shuddering as his guard crumbles and his hand lowers from his scarred face. He finally begins to believe, to hope despite hope. "Am I... truly back?" A part of his mind curses how vulnerable he sounds and undoubtedly looks, but he honestly doesn't care. He has to know once and for all. "Truly free?"

"Optimus Primu." Prime's gaze locks onto his 2IC at the usage of his proper Cybertronian name. Prowl looks as stoic as ever despite a cautious expectation lingering in his optics. "Kale ti ah ducrzo Primu? (What is a true Prime?)"

Optimus Prime does not hesitate, switching languages without consciously realizing it himself. "Ofo pazu chat ah Primu xyk em forsamy ya em aorhai, em omea zyvshai nu kucer xomyxai mahm emnu. Xhyxmy kahiyn, kucer coe jyrfhu. (You shall know a Prime by his mentality and his choices, he who values self but others over himself. Always leading, but never alone.)"

Prowl's neutral expression cracks, warming and brightening into a relieved smile as he rests both hands on the Prime's shoulders. "And alone you are not, Optimus. Not anymore." The other officers similarly relax incrementally, their own relief-their own compassion-dawning on their own faces. "Welcome home, sir."

The Autobot leader simply stands there, the truth inescapable but unbelievable. He reaches out to Jazz and Ironhide with trembling hands, holding onto them as if afraid they'll disappear if he lets go. Ratchet picks up Sparkplug and moves out of the Prime's sight, but a familiar hand rests on the newly-restored metal covering his spine. "Ratchet to all Autobots. On Prowl's behalf and authority, I have an announcement to make." Optimus can hear the CMO's words echo through the radios of those around him. "As of this moment, the Matrix Protocol is revoked. We've got him."

An almighty roar-the unified cheer from all Earthbound Autobots-echoes out from within the Ark upon that proclamation, and finally achieves what no amount of Decepticon torture could. Optimus feels something deep within break and his legs give out from under him, though his officers continue to physically support him and slowly help him sink to the ground.

"Ha... haha... hahahahahaha!" The Prime leans forwards as he pulls his officers even closer, his uncontrollable laughter becomes the closest Cybertronian equivalent to 'sobbing'. The relief crushes him under its weight as the truth finally sinks in. He is home, he is safe, everyone is safe, it is all finally... completely... OVER.

He throws his head back in a bellowing roar, finally venting everything he has bottled up since his capture-the pain he has endured, the hopelessness, the anger, the fear, the /relief/. And his officers stay at his sides, supporting him both physically and mentally past his breaking point.


	22. Epilogue -- A Time to Heal

Rumor has it that it only took two days after the Matrix Protocol was revoked for Optimus Prime to be medically fit for full duty. But the same rumor also claimed that it was an additional five days after that for Prime to be declared mentally fit. Add everything together from the day of capture until now, and the Prime has been out of action for three weeks... almost a full Terran month, actually. In Cybertronian time it isn't that long, but most Autobots have grown used to the faster passage of time on their adopted second home.

Everyone agreed that regardless of exact time, it still felt like an eternity all the same.

A few Autobots, including some of the officers themselves, wonder if Prime is really ready for duty. Bluestreak, being one such Autobot, knows better than most that someone doesn't recover from something like that overnight. But the signs are still there that the wounds are still fresh, that Prime can't yet overcome the memories. He refuses to leave the base when it's cold out (which is bad, since it's the middle of winter) and he still won't raise his arms above his head willingly.

Word had gotten around about what the Decepticons had done to him during the captivity, but to see the emotional scars left makes it hit home. Optimus Prime does his best to hide it, tries to move on while making it seem like it doesn't affect him, but it never works. It's still there, clinging to him. The Autobots have similarly tried to be on their best behavior, make the transition back to active duty easier on their leader, but it seems to be having the opposite effect.

Prime clearly wishes for everything to return to the way it was before everything happened, for his soldiers to be their usual boisterous and often-times crazy selves, but everyone is too scared to try. There is a distance growing between leader and soldier, something that wasn't there before, and nobody's entirely sure how to span it... until Jazz gets an idea.

The saboteur starts holding events in the rec room, not a major party but small camaraderie-building activities. Every night he would wait for word from Red Alert whether Optimus Prime is in the area, and every night the event would start without him. But with each night that passes, the Prime gets closer to the rec room and takes longer to leave the area.

Bluestreak was on monitor duty one night and caught sight of Optimus on one of the monitors, their leader leaning against the wall just next to the rec room's doors and just listening to the fun everyone is having. He couldn't seem to bring himself to actually enter, though, and disappears just before the first mechs start to leave at the end. When the marksmech tells Jazz about it the next morning, the Porsche's whole expression lightens up with gears turning in preparation for an impending plan.

That night, all the Autobots gather for the nightly get-together, but Jazz doesn't start it at its usual time. Instead, he keeps the room dark, ordering total silence and directing mechs to specific hiding spots as he simply waits. The change in the air is palpable, anticipation running high with nobody sure what is going to happen next.

It doesn't take long for the door to open one more time, the light beyond back-lighting the Prime in the doorway. He takes a few cautious steps forwards, evidently not seeing anyone even after his optics readjust to the low light, only for his ankle to catch on a tripwire. Confetti dumps directly on top of him as the lights snap online and all the Autobots pop out of their hiding places with a united joyous cry.

"SURPRISE!"

Optimus simply stands there, frozen in place with his optics pricelessly wide in shock. The Twins give each other a fistbump, satisfied smirks shared between them, and Jazz's smile practically lights up the room. "The mech of the hour finally arrives!"

The unified cheer after Jazz's proclamation finally stirs the Prime out of his shock and he busies himself by brushing most of the confetti off of his armor. "/SOMEONE/ will have to clean this up." He gives a meaningful but quite benign look at the Twins, who make no effort to hide their pride in their part of the 'prank'. The Prime's gaze then sweeps over the room, focusing on each Autobot in turn, optics warming in a smile his newly-restored faceplate hides from view. "I... don't know what to say..."

"No need for grand speeches this time, m'man!" Jazz trots over and slings one arm over the Prime's shoulders despite having to stand on the tips of his pedes in order to do so. "It's just a welcome home party VERY long overdue."

Optimus chuckles, the long-awaited sound of his amusement bringing wide smiles to everyone's faces. "Well then. As I believe you would say," he pokes Jazz's exposed side, deploying the 3IC's speakers and activating the music, "'Let's get this party started'!"

* * *

The party stretches into the early morning hours before it begins to wind down. Turns out that the Autobots that had to be on night shift took turns to visit the lounge, grab a cup of Energon, and take part in the party themselves for a bit before returning to duty. Undoubtedly Prowl relaxed his stance on rules and regulations for this one night, and probably did so willingly.

Bluestreak happens to find Prime near the end of the party as most of the others stagger off to their berths for long-overdue recharge. The Autobot leader is sitting at a table near the back of the room, a distant stare at nothing in particular that Bluestreak recognizes far too easily. It is clear Optimus is thinking, the quiet giving his mind time to wander... and the mind is usually drawn to the dark, painful memories.

The gunner pulls up a chair next to the Prime, who does not react either positively or negatively. In fact, he doesn't react at all. This does not deter Bluestreak in the slightest and he begins to talk, not caring whether his leader is listening or not. He talks about anything that comes to mind: what happened while the Matrix Protocol was in place, soldier morale, current events, silly tangents, even the occasional secret or attempt at a joke.

Hours pass with Bluestreak holding the one-sided conversation, speaking on full-autopilot until a yawn eventually breaks the data-stream. Only then does he get a good look at the Prime, who seems half-asleep in his chair with optics dimmed and partially shuttered. Bluestreak winces slightly in self-reproach as a sheepish grin crosses his face. "Sorry for babbling your audio off, sir. You probably don't appreciate me just up and interrupting your thoughts-"

"Actually." The Prime's soft interruption stops Bluestreak cold, but the inflection in his voice is anything but negative. "I do appreciate it." He lifts his frame to sit up straight, his optics still dimmed but holding a familiar warmth that eases the very spark of a mech. "But you understand why. Correct?"

Bluestreak's gaze shifts off to the side to avoid burdening the Prime with his own emotional scars. "Yes, sir. A silent night can be... very oppressive."

Optimus reaches over and rests a hand on the gunner's shoulder, pulling the younger Autobot's gaze back to his own optics. Bluestreak is surprised to see a pained look in the Prime's optics, one so similar to a look he sees in the mirror every morning after recharge. "You honor me with your compassion, Bluestreak. I thank you for your company so late into the night."

The words don't sink in immediately, but understanding does. "You've done the same for any of us, Prime." Every Autobot has had a late night conversation with Optimus at some point in their career, no matter how brief it had been. "You think you can recharge now? Y'know, without seeing anything?"

The Prime slowly rises out of his chair, stiff joints creaking a bit before oil recirculates through the gears. "I believe I will recharge regardless. That is improvement enough." He bows his head to the marksmech. "Good night, Bluestreak."

Bluestreak gets up, perhaps a bit too hastily, and salutes him in return. "Good night, sir. See you tomorrow?"

His chuckle, though faint, is a relieving sound to hear. "Of course." Prime turns and heads for the door, his old quiet self-assurance clear in every step he takes-a major factor that has been missing since his return.

Only then does Bluestreak truly feel like Ratchet was right that day. Optimus Prime has returned.

_**The End**_


End file.
